AMERICAN   POEMS 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CHICAGO   PRESS 
CHICAGO,  ILLINOIS 


THE   BAKER   &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 

THE   CAMBRIDGE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS 
LONDON 

THE  MARUZEN-K.ABUSHIK.I-K.AISHA 
TOKYO,  OSAKA,  KYOTO,  FUKUOKA,  SENDAI 

THE   COMMERCIAL   PRESS,   LIMITED 
SHANGHAI 


AMERICAN     POEMS 

(1625  —  1892) 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED,  WITH   ILLUSTRATIVE  AND 
EXPLANATORY   NOTES   AND   A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

BY 

WALTER   C.   BRONSON,   LITT.  D. 

Professor  of  English  Literature,  Brown  University,  1895-1928 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CHICAGO   PRESS 
CHICAGO,  ILLINOIS 


COPYRIGHT    1912    BY    THE    UNIVERSITY    OF    CHICAGO 
ALL  RIGHTS  .RESERVED.    PUBLISHED  SEPTEMBER  1912 
o »     i  RoMftetntfi  Impression  November  1931 


'COMP.OSED..ANIJ  ff IJJYEJ)    ^Y  THE   UNIVERSITY  OF  CHICAGO   PRESS 
CHICAGO,  ILLINOIS,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

This  volume  of  American  poems  is  intended  especially  for 
use  in  schools  and  colleges,  although  it  is  also  adapted  to  the 
needs  of  the  individual  reader  who  wishes  to  become  acquainted 
at  first  hand  with  the  whole  field  of  American  poetry.  In 
accordance  with  this  purpose  the  poetry  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries  and  the  minor  poetry  of  the  nineteenth 
century  are  given  some  space;  for  the  earlier  periods  of  our 
poetical  development  deserve  attention,  if  only  for  historical 
reasons,  and  the  lesser  poets  of  the  age  of  Poe,  Longfellow,  and 
Lowell  have  their  own  significance  and  charm.  More  than 
half  the  book,  however,  is  reserved  for  the  greater  poets  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  The  space  allotted  to  individual  authors, 
nevertheless,  is  not  determined  wholly  by  poetical  merit. 
Trumbull,  Barlow,  and  Freneau,  for  example,  are  each  given 
more  pages  than  Holmes,  not  because  they  are  better  poets, 
but  because  their  works  are  less  accessible;  indeed,  the  selec 
tions  from  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  writers  have  in  general 
been  made  full  enough  to  meet  the  needs  of  most  students  and 
readers  without  resort  to  other  books,  while  it  is  assumed 
that  the  selections  from  the  greater  poets  will  be  supplemented 
by  liberal  reading  in  their  complete  works.  Again,  Poe  has 
only  one-fourth  the  space  devoted  to  Longfellow,  solely  because 
his  poetry  is  so  limited  in  amount  and  range  that  it  can  be 
represented  adequately  in  a  few  pages.  A  large  majority  of 
the  selections  are  complete  poems,  including  "Evangeline," 
"Snow-Bound,"  and  "The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal."  In  some 
cases  it  was  necessary  to  print  extracts;  but  the  passages 
chosen  are  intelligible  and  interesting  by  themselves,  and 
those  from  different  parts  of  a  long  poem  form  a  connected 
whole. 


977690 


vi  PREFACE 

In  the  matter  of  texts  I  have  been  exceptionally  fortunate 
in  having  at  hand  two  such  remarkable  collections  of  Americana 
as  the  Harris  Collection  of  American  Poetry  and  the  John 
Carter  Brown  Library.  I  have  taken  advantage  of  their 
resources  to  reprint,  in  full  or  in  part,  some  rare  works  which 
have  seldom  or  never  been  reprinted.  Furthermore,  all  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  century  poems  in  this  volume, 
with  a  few  exceptions,  are  carefully  reproduced  from  first  or 
early  editions,  not  from  reprints.  The  spelling,  capitals, 
italics,  etc.,  of  these  editions  have  been  retained,  because  the 
interest  of  many  of  the  poems  is  largely  antiquarian;  but  typo 
graphical  errors  have  been  corrected,  usually  without  note, 
and  the  varying  styles  in  subheadings,  stage-directions,  etc., 
which  have  no  particular  significance,  have  been  made  uniform. 
The  punctuation  of  the  original  editions,  which  is  often  mis 
leading,  has  been  modernized  as  an  aid  to  getting  the  sense 
quickly  and  accurately;  and  for  the  same  reason  the  long  s, 
and  the  interchange  of  i  and  j  and  of  u  and  v,  have  not  been 
reproduced.  In  the  poetry  of  the  nineteenth  century  there 
was  less  occasion  for  the  use  of  early  editions;  but  I  have 
included  extracts  from  some  rare  volumes  of  minor  poets  and 
from  Bryant's  "Embargo,"  and  have  reprinted  entire  the  first 
form  of  "Snow-Bound"  and  the  "Commemoration  Ode." 
Other  early  editions  are  utilized  in  the  Notes. 

The  Notes  follow  the  plan  which  has  met  with  favor  in 
my  four  volumes  of  English  Poems.  Biographies  and  criticisms 
by  the  editor  are  omitted,  because  it  is  assumed  that  the 
student  will  use  some  manual  of  the  history  of  American 
literature  in  connection  with  the  texts.  The  Notes  include 
(i)  the  poet's  theory  of  poetry  when  this  can  be  given  in  his 
own  words;  (2)  statements  by  the  poet  or  his  friends  which 
throw  light  on  the  meaning  of  a  poem,  or  give  circumstances 
connected  with  the  composition  of  it;  (3)  explanations  of  words, 
allusions,  etc.,  which  the  student  or  reader  may  find  obscure; 


PREFACE  vii 

(4)  variant  readings  of  a  few  poems,  such  as  "Thanatopsis" 
and  "The  City  in  the  Sea,"  whose  revision  has  peculiar  interest 
or  significance;  (5)  quotations  from  sources  and  parallel 
passages,  to  show  the  poet's  literary  relationships  and  his  way 
of  shaping  material;  (6)  specimens  of  contemporary  criticism, 
taken  chiefly  from  periodicals. 

I  express  my  thanks  to  Mr.  H.  L.  Koopman,  of  the  John 
Hay  Library,  and  to  Mr.  G.  P.  Winship,  of  the  John  Carter 
Brown  Library,  Brown  University,  for  courtesies  in  connection 
with  the  use  of  rare  books;  and  to  Professor  W.  P.  Trent, 
who  has  kindly  allowed  me  to  reprint  from  his  Southern  Writers 
a  poem  by  Hayne  not  otherwise  accessible  to  me,  and  has  fur 
nished  certain  information  about  it.  My  thanks  are  also  due 
to  the  following  men  and  publishing  houses  for  kind  permis 
sion  to  use  copyrighted  material:  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  publishers 
of  Bryant's  works  and  of  Godwin's  life  of  him;  Messrs.  H.  L. 
Traubel  and  T.  B.  Harned,  Whitman's  literary  executors,  and 
Mitchell  Kennerley,  the  publisher  of  his  works;  the  B.  F. 
Johnson  Publishing  Co.,  publishers  of  Timrod's  poems; 
Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Co.,  publishers  of  Hayne's  poems; 
Mr.  M.  P.  Andrews,  editor  of  Randall's  poems,  and  the  White 
hall  Publishing  Co.,  the  publishers  of  them;  Mr.  W.  H.  Thomp 
son,  author  of  "The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg";  the  Whitaker 
&  Ray-Wiggin  Co.,  publishers  of  Miller's  poems;  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  publishers  of  Lanier's  poems;  Little,  Brown 
&  Co.,  publishers  of  Miss  Dickinson's  poems.  My  wife  has 
rendered  invaluable  assistance  by  preparing  copy,  collating 
texts,  making  the  table  of  contents  and  the  indices,  revising 
notes,  and  reading  proof;  without  her  aid  my  labor  would  have 
been  much  heavier,  and  the  book  less  accurate. 

W.  C.  B. 
BROWN  UNIVERSITY 
August  20,  1912 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE         v 

WILLIAM  MORRELL 

From  New-England i 

ANONYMOUS 

From  The  Whole  Booke  of  Psalmes 

23  A  Psalme  of  David 2 

Psalme  93 2 

Psalme  133 3 

EDWARD  JOHNSON 

From  Wonder-Working  Providence  of  Sions  Saviour  in  New- 
England  3 

ANNE  BRADSTREET 

The  Prologue 4 

From  Of  the  Four  Ages  of  Man 5 

From  The  Four  Seasons  of  the  Year 

Spring 7 

From  The  Four  Monarchyes 9 

Contemplations 10 

A  Letter  to  Her  Husband  17 

i/  Longing  for  Heaven 18 

MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH 

From  The  Day  of  Doom 19 

From  God's  Controversy  with  New-England 27 

NEW  ENGLAND  ELEGIES 

From  Upon  the  Tomb  of  the  Most  Reverend  Mr.  John  Cotton 

(byB.  W.) •       28 

Lines  Written  at  the  Approach  of  Death  (by  Thomas  Dudley)    .       29 

On  Ralph  Partridge 3° 

From  A  Threnodia  (by  E.  B.) 30 

From  An  Elegie  upon  the  Death  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Thomas 

Shepard  (by  Urian  Oakes)       .  3* 

From  A  Poem  Dedicated  to  the  Memory  of  the  Reverend  and 

Excellent  Mr.  Urian  Oakes  (by  N.  R.) 33 

JOHN  GRAVE 

From  A  Song  of  Sion 3i 


CONTENTS 


ANONYMOUS 

Bacons  Epitaph 36 

NICHOLAS  No  YES 

From  A  Praefatory  Poem 37 

From  A  Consolatory  Poem         ........       38 

EBENEZER  COOK 

From  The  Sot- Weed  Factor        .        .       .       ,       .       .       .       .       39 

ANONYMOUS 

Song  of  Lovewell's  Fight 42 

MATHER  BYLES 

From  An  Elegy  Address'd  to  His  Excellency  Governour  Belcher        44 

JOSEPH  GREEN 

The  Poet's  Lamentation  for  the  Loss  of  His  Cat    ....       45 

ANONYMOUS 

Commencement 46 

JOHN  MAYLEM 

From  The  Conquest  of  Louisburg      .        .        .        .       .       .       .       51 

THOMAS  GODFREY 

The  Invitation 53 

From  The  Court  of  Fancy 54 

From  The  Prince  of  Parthia,  a  Tragedy 

Act  I.  Scene  i 56 

ROBERT  ROGERS 
From  Ponteach 

Act  I.  Scene  i 60 

From  Act  II.  Scene  2 64 

PHILLIS  WHEATLEY 

An  Hymn  to  the  Evening .       .       .  66 

POEMS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

The  Liberty  Song  (by  John  Dickinson)     .       .       .       •    .   . '     .  66 

A  New  Song .'       .  68 

Virginia  Banishing  Tea        .........  69 

The  Yankee's  Return  from  Camp .  70 

Nathan  Hale 71 

The  Battle  of  the  Kegs  (by  Francis  Hopkinson)     .       .       .       .  73 

The  British  Light-Infantry 75 

The  Old  Year  and  the  New 76 

From  The  American  Times  (by  Jonathan  Odell)     ....  77 


CONTENTS  xi 


HUGH  H.  BRACKENRIDGE 

From  The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill 

Act  V.  Scene  i »       ....  78 

Scene  2      .       .       .       .       * 7q 

Scenes      .       .       .       ....       .       ..       .  80 

Scene  4 81 

Scene  5 82 

Scene  6 83 

Scene  7 83 

Scene  8 84 

Scene  9 84 

Scene  10  and  Last 85 

JOHN  TRUMBULL 

The  Progress  of  Dulness 

From  Part  I,  or  the  Adventures  of  Tom  Brainless         .       .  87 

From  Part  III,  or  the  Adventures  of  Miss  Harriet  Simper    .  91 
M'Fingal 

From  Canto  I 95 

From  Canto  III     .               99 

DAVID  HUMPHREYS 

From  The  Happiness  of  America 106 

TIMOTHY  D WIGHT 

From  The  Conquest  of  Canaan 108 

Greenfield  Hill 

From  Part  II no 

From  Part  IV .112 

JOEL  BARLOW 

The  Vision  of  Columbus 

From  Book  I 116 

From  Book  V 120 

From  The  Columbiad 121 

The  Hasty-Pudding 

Canto  I           124 

Canto  II 128 

Canto  III 130 

PHILIP  FRENEAU 

From  The  Beauties  of  Santa  Cruz 133 

From  The  House  of  Night  .       .     • 135 

From  The  British  Prison  Ship 143 

To  the  Memory  of  the  Brave  Americans 144 


CONTENTS 


From  The  Political  Balance .145 

The  Wild  Honey  Suckle .148 

The  Indian  Burying  Ground       .        .        .        *       .       ...  149 

The  New  England  Sabbath-Day  Chace    ..;...  150 
The  Republican  Genius  of  Europe     .       ...       .        .        .152 

On  a  Honey  Bee 153 

To  a  Caty-Did 154 

ROBERT  TREAT  PAINE 

From  The  Ruling  Passion 156 

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE 

Stanzas 157 

JOHN  NEAL 

From  The  Battle  of  Niagara 

A  Night-Attack  by  Cavalry 158 

Lake  Ontario 160 

The  Hour  of  Quiet  Ecstacy .160 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE 

From  The  Culprit  Fay.       . 161 

HENRY  C.  KNIGHT 
A  Summer's  Day 

Morning 170 

Noon 170 

Evening 171 

FITZ-GREENE  H  ALLEGE 

Marco  Bozzaris I71 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

A  Health 174 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS 

Roaring  Brook *75 

Unseen  Spirits 176 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE 

Florence  Vane «       .;  177 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

From  The  Embargo 178 

Thanatopsis .       .       •       •  *79 

The  Yellow  Violet        . .  181 

Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood 182 

To  a  Waterfowl  .        .        .        .183 


CONTENTS 


A  Winter  Piece      .               .                              i»4 

Oh  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids 187 

Summer  Wind •       •        •        •        •  l88 

Monument  Mountain 189 

A  Forest  Hymn 192 

June X9S 

A  Summer  Ramble *97 

The  Evening  Wind J99 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian 200 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 200 

The  Prairies 202 

Robert  of  Lincoln •   •        -205 

The  Wind  and  Stream 207 

The  Death  of  Lincoln 208 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Sonnet— to  Science 2O9 

Song  from  "Al  Aaraaf" 209 

To  Helen 2I1 

Israfel      ....               . 2I2 

The  City  in  the  Sea 2I3 

The  Sleeper 2I5 

To  One  in  Paradise 2l6 

The  Haunted  Palace 2I7 

The  Conqueror  Worm 218 

The  Raven 2I9 

Ulalume 223 

The  Bells 22S 

Annabel  Lee 228 

Eldorado.        ...               229 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink 23° 

^  A  Psalm  of  Life     ...               23J 

^Hymn  to  the  Night 233 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 233 

The  Village  Blacksmith 23& 

Serenade 2<37 

The  Rainy  Day 238 

The  Slave's  Dream 

The  Day  is  Done  ....  .24° 

Th*  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs 24* 


xiv  CONTENTS 


Evangeline      . 243 

Part  the  First        .       ....       .       .       .       .       .       .  244 

Part  the  Second     .        .       .       .       .    '   .       .   •     .       .       .  263 

Children .        .       .    '   *       .        .        .  283 

From  The  Song  of  Hiawatha 

III.  Hiawatha's  Childhood          .        . 285 

VIII.  Hiawatha's  Fishing    .       .       .       .     '.       .       .       .  290 

XX.  The  Famine 296 

My  Lost  Youth .       .       .  301 

The  Children's  Hour 303 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 305 

Weariness 308 

Divina  Commedia 309 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Good-Bye 309 

The  Rhodora 3IO 

Each  and  All .       .310 

The  Apology .       .     312 

Hymn  Sung  at  the  Completion  of  the  Concord  Monument  .        .     312 

The  Humble-Bee 3I3 

The  Problem 3^ 

From  Wood-Notes 

Parti 316 

The  Sphinx .320 

The  Snow-Storm 324 

Forbearance -325 

Days 32- 

Brahma 326 

From  Voluntaries .326 

Terminus 327 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia .       .  328 

Proem 331 

Ichabod 332 

Wordsworth ,  333 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside 

I.  Noon 334 

II.  Evening 336 

Maud  Muller .       .       .       .       .     337 

The  Barefoot  Boy 34I 


CONTENTS  xv 


Skipper  Ireson's  Ride 344 

Telling  the  Bees 346 

My  Playmate 348 

Barbara  Frietchie 35° 

Abraham  Davenport •       •       •       •  35 2 

Snow-Bound 354 

The  Eternal  Goodness 373 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

Old  Ironsides ....       -375 

My  Aunt 376 

The  Last  Leaf 377 

The  Comet 379 

From  Urania 381 

The  Chambered  Nautilus    .               . 381 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece 382 

"The  Boys" 3»5 

Hymn  of  Trust 3^7 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Our  Love  Is  Not  a  Fading,  Earthly  Flower 387 

Wendell  Phillips 388 

Rhoecus 388 

To  the  Dandelion 392 

From  The  Biglow  Papers 

No.  I 394 

No.  II 398 

An  Indian-Summer  Reverie         . 4°i 

From  A  Fable  for  Critics 4°9 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal 

Prelude  to  Part  First 41° 

Part  First 4*3 

Prelude  to  Part  Second 415 

Part  Second .       .  416 

Beaver  Brook 4*9 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud         .       .        .  ' 421 

The  Courtin' 424 

Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration 42? 

BAYARD  TAYLOR 

The  Fight  of  Paso  del  Mar 436 

Bedouin  Song 438 


xvi  CONTENTS 


To  the  Nile ; 

The  Quaker  Widow      .       .     •' 

WALT  WHITMAN 

From  Song  of  Myself 

From  Faces  /'••'    . 

Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking        .... 

From  Starting  from  Paumanok 

I  Hear  It  Was  Charged  against  Me 

When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astronomer    .... 

Pioneers!  O  Pioneers 

Cavalry  Crossing  a  Ford 

Come  up  from  the  Fields,  Father 

Vigil  Strange  I  Kept  on  the  Field  One  Night  .        .        . 

A  March  in  the  Ranks  Hard-Prest  and  the  Road  Unknown 

O  Captain  1   My  Captain . 

When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloom'd    . 

One's-Self  I  Sing 

Whispers  of  Heavenly  Death 

The  Singer  in  the  Prison 

In  Cabin'd  Ships  at  Sea 

Yet,  Yet,  Ye  Downcast  Hours 

To  the  Man-of- War-Bird 

Spirit  That  Form'd  This  Scene 

With  Husky-Haughty  Lips,  O  Sea 

Good-bye,  My  Fancy  

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

Leonatus 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante .       ... 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER 

From  Nothing  to  Wear        .        .  •„ 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

The  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell ,       .483 

Before  the  Rain .        .     485 

After  the  Rain 486 

Pampinea 486 

HENRY  TIMROD 

The  Lily  Confidante .       .       .       ,       .     488 

Charleston 400 


CONTENTS  xvii 


Spring .«,.-•        •  49' 

I  Know  Not  Why,  but  All  This  Weary  Day 493 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

The  Mocking-Birds 49^ 

A  Little  While  I  Fain  Would  Linger  Yet         .....  496 

POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

The  Heart  of  Louisiana  (by  Harriet  Stanton)          ....  497 

Dixie  (by  Albert  Pike) 4;8 

Maryland!     My  Maryland  (by  James  R.  Randall)        .        .       .  499 

Baltimore  (by  B.  Rush  Plumly) 501 

The  Stars  and  Stripes  (by  Thomas  Williams)          ....  502 

Ohio  Fair  and  Free  (by  G.  W.  Y.) 505 

After  the  Battle  of  Bull  Run 506 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic  (by  Julia  Ward  Howe)     .        .        .  507 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way  (by  John  W.  Palmer)      ....  508 

From  The  Song  of  the  Rebel  (by  John  Esten  Cook)      .        .        .  509 

An  Incident  of  the  War  (by  M.  W.  M.) 510 

Calvary-Song  (by  Elbridge  J.  Cutler) 512 

Sheridan's  Ride  (by  Thomas  Buchanan  Read)        .        .        .        .512 
The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg  (by  Will  Henry  Thompson)    .        .514 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

How  Old  Brown  Took  Harper's  Ferry 516 

Pan  in  Wall  Street 520 

ALICE  GARY 

Sometimes 523 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 

In  Yosemite  Valley 524 

From  The  Ship  in  the  Desert 525 

SIDNEY  LANIER 

Night  and  Day S25 

Song  for  "The  Jacquerie" 526 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn 527 

How  Love  Looked  for  Hell 530 

EMILY  DICKINSON 

To  Fight  Aloud  Is  Very  Brave 533 

I  Died  for  Beauty 533 

The  Way  I  Read  a  Letter  's  This 534 

The  Lovers 534 


xvm  CONTENTS 


In  the  Garden 535 

The  Snake      .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  536 

Simplicity .  536 

NOTES ^      •-.       .       .  539 

BIBLIOGRAPHY       .              .       .       .                     .       .       .       .       .  637 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 659 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 660 

INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .'      .       .663 


WILLIAM  MORRELL-  '  '*> 


FROM 

NEW-ENGLAND 


Those  well  scene  Natives  in  grave  Natures  bests 

All  close  designes  conceale  in  their  deepe  brests; 

What  strange  attempts  so  ere  they  doe  intend 

Are  fairely  usherd  in  till  their  last  ende; 

Their  well  advised  talke  evenly  conveyes  5 

Their  acts  to  their  intents,  and  nere  displayes 

Their  secret  projects  by  high  words  or  light 

Till  they  conclude  their  end  by  fraud  or  might. 

No  former  friendship  they  in  minde  retaine, 

If  you  offend  once  or  your  love  detaine.  10 

They  're  wondrous  cruell,  strangely  base  and  viled, 

Quickly  displeasd  and  hardly  reconcild; 

Stately  and  great,  as  read  in  Rules  of  state; 

Incensd,  not  caring  what  they  perpetrate. 

Whose  hayre  is  cut  with  greeces,  yet  a  locke  15 

Is  left,  the  left  side  bound  up  in  a  knott. 

Their  males  small  labour  but  great  pleasure  know, 

Who  nimbly  and  expertly  draw  the  bow; 

Traind  up  to  suffer  cruell  heate  and  cold, 

Or  what  attempt  so  ere  may  make  them  bold;  20 

Of  body  straight,  tall,  strong,  mantled  in  skin 

Of  Deare  or  Bever,  with  the  hayre-side  in; 

An  Otter  skin  their  right  armes  doth  keepe  warme, 

To  keepe  them  fit  for  use  and  free  from  harme. 

A  Girdle  set  with  formes  of  birds  or  beasts  25 

Begirts  their  waste,  which  gently  gives  them  ease. 

Each  one  doth  modestly  binde  up  his  shame, 

And  Deare-skin  Start-ups  reach  up  to  the  same; 

A  kinde  of  Pinsen  keeps  their  feete  from  cold, 

Which  after  travels  they  put  off,  up-fold.  30 

Themselves  they  warme,  their  ungirt  limbes  they  rest, 

In  straw  and  houses  like  to  sties.     Distrest 

With  Winters  cruell  blasts,  a  hotter  clime 

They  quickly  march  to;  when  that  extreame  time 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Is  over,  then  contented  they  retire  35 

To  their  old  homes,  burning  up  all  with  fire: 

Thus  they  their  ground  from  all  things  quickly  cleare, 

Ana  make  it  apt  great  store  of  Corne  to  beare. 

1625. 


ANONYMOUS 

FROM 

THE  WHOLE  BOOKE  OF  PSALMES 

23    A    PSALME   OF   DAVID 

The  Lord  to  mee  a  shepheard  is, 

want  therefore  shall  not  I. 
Hee  in  the  folds  of  tender-grasse 

doth  cause  mee  downe  to  lie: 
To  waters  calme  me  gently  leads,  5 

Restore  my  soule  doth  hee: 
he  doth  in  paths  of  righteousnes 

for  his  names  sake  leade  mee. 
Yea,  though  in  valley  of  deaths  shade 

I  walk,  none  ill  I  'le  feare;  10 

because  thou  art  with  mee,  thy  rod 

and  staffe  my  comfort  are. 
For  mee  a  table  thou  hast  spread 

in  presence  of  my  foes: 
thou  dost  annoynt  my  head  with  oyle,  15 

my  cup  it  over-flowes. 
Goodnes  &  mercy  surely  shall 

all  my  dayes  follow  mee; 
and  in  the  Lords  house  I  shall  dwell 

so  long  as  dayes  shall  bee.  ao 

PSALME  93 

The  Lord  reigns,  cloth'd  with  majesty: 

God  cloath'd  with  strength  doth  gird 
himself e:  the  world  so  stablisht  is 

that  it  cannot  be  stir'd. 
Thy  throne  is  stablished  of  old:  5 

from  aye  thou  art.     Their  voyce 


EDWARD  JOHNSON 


the  flouds  lift  up,  Lord,  flouds  lift  up, 

the  flouds  lift  up  their  noyse. 
The  Lord  on  high  then  waters  noyse 

more  strong,  then  waves  of  sea.  10 

Thy  words  most  sure:  Lord,  holines 

becomes  thine  house  for  aye. 

PSALME  133 
A  song  of  degrees,  of  David 

How  good  and  sweet,  o  see, 
i'ts  for  brethren  to  dwell 
together  in  unitee: 
It 's  like  choise  oyle  that  fell 

the  head  upon,  5 

that  downe  did  flow 
the  beard  unto, 

beard  of  Aron; 
The  skirts  of  his  garment 

that  unto  them  went  downe;  10 

Like  Hermons  dews  descent 
Sions  mountaines  upon; 

for  there  to  bee 
the  Lords  blessing, 
life  aye  lasting  I5 

commandeth  hee. 
1636-40.  I640. 


EDWARD  JOHNSON 

FROM 

WONDER-WORKING  PROVIDENCE  OF  SIONS 
SAVIOUR  IN  NEW-ENGLAND 

From  silent  night,  true  Register  of  moans, 
From  saddest  soul  consum'd  in  deepest  sin, 

From  heart  quite  rent  with  sighs  and  heavy  groans, 
My  wailing  muse  her  woful  work  begins, 

And  to  the  world  brings  tunes  of  sad  lament, 

Sounding  nought  els  but  sorrows  sad  relent 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Lord,  stay  thy  hand;  thy  Jacobs  number  's  small; 

Powre  out  thy  wrath  on  Antichrists  proud  Thrones; 
Here  thy  poor  flocks  that  on  thee  daily  call, 

Bottle  their  tears,  and  pity  their  sad  groans.  10 

Where  shall  we  go,  Lord  Christ  ?  we  turn  to  thee; 
Heal  our  back-slidings,  forward  press  shall  we. 

Not  we,  but  all  thy  Saints  the  world  throughout 

Shall  on  thee  wait,  thy  wonders  to  behold; 
Thou  King  of  Saints,  the  Lord  in  battel  stout,  15 

Increase  thy  armies  many  thousand  fold. 
Oh  Nations  all,  his  anger  seek  to  stay, 
That  doth  create  him  armies  every  day. 

1654. 


ANNE  BRADSTREET 

THE  PROLOGUE 

To  sing  of  Wars,  of  Captains,  and  of  Kings, 

Of  Cities  founded,  Common-wealths  begun, 

For  my  mean  pen  are  too  superiour  things, 

Or  how  they  all  or  each  their  dates  have  run : 

Let  Poets  and  Historians  set  these  forth;  5 

My  obscure  Lines  shall  not  so  dim  their  worth. 

But  when  my  wondring  eyes  and  envious  heart 

Great  Bartas  sugar'd  lines  do  but  read  o're, 

Fool,  I  do  grudg  the  Muses  did  not  part 

'Twixt  him  and  me  that  overfluent  store;  10 

A  B arias  can  do  what  a  Bartas  will, 

But  simple  I  according  to  my  skill. 

From  school-boyes  tongue  no  rhet'rick  we  expect, 

Nor  yet  a  sweet  Consort  from  broken  strings. 

Nor  perfect  beauty  where  's  a  main  defect:  15 

My  foolish,  broken,  blemish'd  Muse  so  sings; 

And  this  to  mend,  alas,  no  Art  is  able, 

'Cause  nature  made  it  so  irreparable. 


ANNE  BRADSTREET 


Nor  can  I,  like  that  fluent  sweet-tongu'd  Greek 

Who  lisp'd  at  first,  in  future  times  speak  plain;  20 

By  Art  he  gladly  found  what  he  did  seek, 

A  full  requital  of  his  striving  pain: 

Art  can  do  much;  but  this  maxime  's  most  sure, 

A  weak  or  wounded  brain  admits  no  cure. 

I  am  obnoxious  to  each  carping  tongue  25 

Who  says  my  hand  a  needle  better  fits; 

A  Poets  pen  all  scorn  I  should  thus  wrong, 

For  such  despite  they  cast  on  Female  wits: 

If  what  I  do  prove  well  it  won  't  advance; 

They  '1  say  it 's  stoln,  or  else  it  was  by  chance.  30 

But  sure  the  antique  Greeks  were  far  more  mild, 

Else  of  our  Sexe  why  feigned  they  those  Nine, 

And  poesy  made  Calliope's  own  Child  ? 

So  'mongst  the  rest  they  placed  the  Arts  Divine. 

But  this  weak  knot  they  will  full  soon  untie:  35 

The  Greeks  did  nought  but  play  the  fools  &  lye. 

Let  Greeks  be  Greeks,  and  women  what  they  are, 

Men  have  precedency  and  still  excell: 

It  is  but  vain  unjustly  to  wage  warre; 

Men  can  do  best,  and  women  know  it  well:  40 

Preheminence  in  all  and  each  is  yours; 

Yet  grant  some  small  acknowledgement  of  ours. 

And  oh  ye  high  flown  quills  that  soar  the  Skies, 

And  ever  with  your  prey  still  catch  your  praise, 

If  e're  you  daigne  these  lowly  lines  your  eyes,  45 

Give  Thyme  or  Parsley  wreath,  I  ask  no  bayes: 

This  mean  and  unrefined  ure  of  mine, 

Will  make  your  glistring  gold  but  more  to  shine. 

1650. 

FROM 
OF  THE  FOUR  AGES  OF  MAN 

Lo  now  four  other  act  upon  the  stage: 
Childhood  and  Youth,  the  Manly  &  Old-age. 
The  first,  son  unto  flegm,  Grand-child  to  water, 
Unstable,  supple,  cold,  and  moist 's  his  nature. 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  second,  frolick,  claims  his  pedegree  5 

From  blood  and  air,  for  hot  and  moist  is  he. 

The  third  of  fire  and  Choler  is  compos'd, 

Vindicative  and  quarelsome  dispos'd. 

The  last,  of  earth  and  heavy  melancholy, 

Solid,  hating  all  lightness  and  all  folly.  To 

Childhood  was  cloth'd  in  white  &  green  to  show 

His  spring  was  intermixed  with  some  snow. 

Upon  his  head  nature  a  Garland  set 

Of  Primrose,  Daizy,  &  the  Violet: 

Such  cold  mean  flowrs  the  spring  puts  forth  betime,  15 

Before  the  sun  hath  throughly  heat  the  clime. 

His  Hobby  striding  did  not  ride  but  run, 

And  in  his  hand  an  hour-glass  new  begun, 

In  danger  every  moment  of  a  fall, 

And  when  tis  broke  then  ends  his  life  and  all;  20 

But  if  he  hold  till  it  have  run  its  last, 

Then  may  he  live  out  threescore  years  or  past. 

Next  Youth  came  up,  in  gorgeous  attire, 

As  that  fond  age  doth  most  of  ail  desire: 

His  Suit  of  Crimson,  and  his  scarfe  of  green.  25 

His  pride  in  's  countenance  was  quickly  seen. 

Garland  of  roses,  pinks,  and  gilli-flowers 

Seemed  on  's  head  to  grow  bedew'd  with  showers; 

His  face  as  fresh  as  is  Aurora  fair 

When  blushing  she  begins  to  light  the  air.  30 

No  wooden  horse,  but  one  of  mettal  try'd, 

He  seems  to  fly  or  swim,  and  not  to  ride. 

Then,  prancing  on  the  stage,  about  he  wheels; 

But  as  he  went  death  waited  at  his  heels. 

The  next  came  up  in  a  much  graver  sort,  35 

As  one  that  cared  for  a  good  report. 

His  sword  by  's  side  and  choler  in  his  eyes, 

But  neither  us'd  as  yet  for  he  was  wise. 

Of  Autumns  fruits  a  basket  on  his  arm, 

His  golden  God  in  's  purse,  which  was  his  charm.  40 

And  last  of  all  to  act  upon  this  stage, 

Leaning  upon  his  staff  came  up  Old-age. 

Under  his  arm  a  sheaf  of  wheat  he  bore, 

An  harvest  of  the  best;  what  needs  he  more? 

In  's  other  hand  a  glass  ev'n  almost  run;  45 


ANNE  BRADSTREET 


Thus  writ  about:   This  out,  then  I  am  done. 
His  hoary  hairs  and  grave  aspect  made  way, 
And  all  gave  ear  to  what  he  had  to  say. 

These  being  met,  each  in  his  equipage, 
Intend  to  speak  according  to  their  age;  50 

But  wise  Old-age  did  with  all  gravity 
To  childish  Childhood  give  precedency, 
And  to  the  rest  his  reason  mildly  told, 
That  he  was  young  before  he  grew  so  old. 
To  do  as  he  each  one  full  soon  assents;  55 

Their  method  was  that  of  the  Elements, 
That  each  should  tell  what  of  himself  he  knew, 
Both  good  and  bad,  but  yet  no  more  then  's  true. 
With  heed  now  stood  three  ages  of  frail  man 
To  hear  the  child,  who,  crying,  thus  began.  60 

1650. 

TROM 
THE  FOUR  SEASONS  OF  THE  YEAR 

SPRING 

Another  four  I  Ve  left  yet  to  bring  on, 

Of  four  times  four  the  last  Quaternion: 

The  Winter,  Summer,  Autumn,  &  the  Spring; 

In  season  all  these  Seasons  I  shall  bring. 

Sweet  Spring,  like  man  in  his  Minority,  5 

At  present  claim'd  and  had  priority. 

With  smiling  face  and  garments  somewhat  green, 

She  trim'd  her  locks  which  late  had  frosted  been; 

Nor  hot  nor  cold  she  spake,  but  with  a  breath 

Fit  to  revive  the  nummed  earth  from  death.  10 

"Three  months,"  quoth  she,  "are  'lotted  to  my  share 
March,  April,  May,  of  all  the  rest  most  fair. 
Tenth  of  the  first,  Sol  into  Aries  enters, 
And  bids  defiance  to  all  tedious  winters; 
Crosseth  the  Line  and  equals  night  and  day,  15 

Stil  adds  to  th'  last  til  after  pleasant  May, 
And  now  makes  glad  the  darkned  northern  wights 
Who  for  some  months  have  seen  but  starry  lights. 
Now  goes  the  Plow-man  to  his  merry  toyle; 
He  might  unloose  his  winter-locked  soy!,  2o 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  Seeds-man  too  doth  lavish  out  his  grain, 

In  hope  the  more  he  casts  the  more  to  gain. 

The  Gardner  now  superfluous  branches  lops, 

And  poles  erects  for  his  young  clambring  hops; 

Now  digs,  then  sowes  his  herbs,  his  flowers,  &  roots,  25 

And  carefully  manures  his  trees  of  fruits. 

The  Pleiades  their  influence  now  give 

And  all  that  seem'd  as  dead  afresh  doth  live: 

The  croaking  frogs,  whom  nipping  winter  kil'd, 

Like  birds  now  chirp  and  hop  about  the  field;  30 

The  Nightingale,  the  black  bird,  and  the  Thrush 

Now  tune  their  layes  on  sprayes  of  every  bush; 

The  wanton  frisking  Kid  and  soft-fleec'd  Lambs 

Do  jump  and  play  before  their  feeding  Dams, 

The  tender  tops  of  budding  grass  they  crop,  35 

They  joy  in  what  they  have  but  more  in  hope; 

For  though  the  frost  hath  lost  his  binding  power, 

Yet  many  a  fleece  of  snow  and  stormy  shower 

Doth  darken  Sol's  bright  eye,  makes  us  remember 

The  pinching  North-west  wind  of  cold  December.  40 

"My  second  moneth  is  April,  green  and  fair, 
Of  longer  dayes  and  a  more  temperate  Air; 
The  Sun  in  Taurus  keeps  his  residence, 
And  with  his  warmer  beams  glanceth  from  thence. 
This  is  the  month  whose  fruitful  showrs  produces  45 

All  set  and  sown  for  all  delights  and  uses: 
The  Pear,  the  Plum,  and  Apple-tree  now  flourish, 
The  Grass  grows  long  the  hungry  beast  to  nourish; 
The  Primrose  pale  and  azure  violet 

Among  the  virduous  grass  hath  nature  set,  50 

That  when  the  Sun  on  's  Love,  the  earth,  doth  shine, 
These  might  as  lace  set  out  her  garment  fine. 
The  fearfull  bird  his  little  house  now  builds 
In  trees  and  walls,  in  Cities  and  in  fields; 
The  outside  strong,  the  inside  warm  and  neat,  55 

A  natural  Artificer  compleat. 
The  clocking  hen  her  chirping  chickins  leads, 
With  wings  &  beak  defends  them  from  the  gleads. 

"  My  next  and  last  is  fruitf ull  pleasant  May, 
Wherein  the  earth  is  clad  in  rich  aray;  60 

The  Sun  now  enters  loving  Gemini, 


ANNE  BRADSTREET 


And  heats  us  with  the  glances  of  his  eye, 

Our  thicker  rayment  makes  us  lay  aside 

Lest  by  his  fervor  we  be  torrifi'd. 

All  flowers  the  Sun  now  with  his  beams  discloses,  65 

Except  the  double  pinks  and  matchless  Roses. 

Now  swarms  the  busy,  witty,  honey-Bee, 

Whose  praise  deserves  a  page  from  more  then  me. 

The  cleanly  Huswifes  Dary  's  now  in  th'  prime, 

Her  shelves  and  firkins  fill'd  for  winter  time.  70 

The  meads  with  Cowslips,  Honey-suckles  dight; 

One  hangs  his  head,  the  other  stands  upright, 

But  both  rejoyce  at  th'  heavens  clear  smiling  face, 

More  at  her  showers,  which  water  them  a  space. 

For  fruits  my  Season  yields  the  early  Cherry,  75 

The  hasty  Peas,  and  wholsome  cool  Strawberry. 

More  solid  fruits  require  a  longer  time; 

Each  Season  bath  his  fruit,  so  hath  each  Clime: 

Each  man  his  own  peculiar  excellence, 

But  none  in  all  that  hath  preheminence."  80 

Sweet  fragrant  Spring,  with  thy  short  pittance  fly; 
Let  some  describe  thee  better  then  can  I. 
Yet  above  all  this  priviledg  is  thine; 
Thy  dayes  still  lengthen,  without  least  decline. 

1650. 

FROM 
THE  FOUR  MONARCHYES 

Next  o're  the  Helespont  a  bridge  he  made 

Of  Boats  together  coupled  and  there  laid; 

But  winds  and  waves  those  iron  bands  did  break, 

To  cross  the  sea  such  strength  he  found  too  weak; 

Then  whips  the  sea,  and  with  a  mind  most  vain  5 

He  fetters  cast  therein  the  same  to  chain; 

The  work-men  put  to  death  the  bridge  that  made, 

Because  they  wanted  skill  the  same  to  've  staid. 

Seven  thousand  Gallyes  chain'd  by  Tyrians  skill 

Firmly  at  last  accomplished  his  will.  10 

Seven  dayes  and  nights  his  host  without  least  stay 

Was  marching  o're  this  new-devised  way. 

Then  in  Abidus  plains  mustring  his  forces, 

He  gloryes  in  his  squadrons  and  his  horses; 


io  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Long  viewing  them,  thought  it  great  happiness  15 

One  king  so  many  subjects  should  possess; 

But  yet  this  sight  from  him  produced  tears 

That  none  of  those  could  live  an  hundred  years: 

What  after  did  ensue  had  he  foreseen, 

Of  so  long  time  his  thoughts  had  never  been.  20 

Of  Artubanus  he  again  demands 

How  of  this  enterprise  his  thoughts  now  stands. 

His  answer  was  both  sea  and  land  he  fear'd; 

Which  was  not  vain,  as  after  soon  appear'd. 

But  Xerxes  resolute  to  Thrace  goes  first:  25 

His  Host  all  Lissus  drinks  to  quench  their  thirst; 

And  for  his  Cattel  all  Pissyrus  Lake 

Was  scarce  enough  for  each  a  draught  to  take. 

Then  marching  on  to  th'  streight  Thermopyle, 

The  Spartan  meets  him,  brave  Leonade;  30 

This  'twixt  the  mountains  lyes,  half  Acre  wide, 

That  pleasant  Thessaly  from  Greece  divide. 

Two  dayes  and  nights  a  fight  they  there  maintain, 

Till  twenty  thousand  Persians  fell  down  slain; 

And  all  that  Army,  then  dismaid,  had  fled,  35 

But  that  a  Fugitive  discovered 

How  some  might  o're  the  mountains  go  about 

And  wound  the  backs  of  those  brave  warriors  stout. 

They,  thus  behem'd  with  multitude  of  foes, 

Laid  on  more  fiercely  their  deep  mortal  blows;  40 

None  cries  for  quarter  nor  yet  seeks  to  run, 

But  on  their  ground  they  die,  each  Mothers  Son. 

O  noble  Greeks,  how  now  degenerate, 

Where  is  the  valour  of  your  ancient  State 

When  as  one  thousand  could  a  million  daunt  ?  45 

Alas,  it  is  Leonades  you  want! 

1650. 

CONTEMPLATIONS 

Some  time  now  past  in  the  Autumnal  Tide, 

When  Phoebus  wanted  but  one  hour  to  bed, 

The  trees  all  richly  clad,  yet  void  of  pride, 

Were  gilded  o're  by  his  rich  golden  head; 

Their  leaves  &  fruits  seem'd  painted,  but  was  true.  5 

Of  green,  of  red,  of  yellow,  mixed  hew; 

Rapt  were  my  sences  at  this  delectable  view. 


ANNE  BRADSTREET  n 

I  wist  not  what  to  wish;  "yet  sure,"  thought  I, 
"  If  so  much  excellence  abide  below, 

How  excellent  is  he  that  dwells  on  high,  10 

Whose  power  and  beauty  by  his  works  we  know  I 
Sure  he  is  goodness,  wisdome,  glory,  light, 
That  hath  this  under-world  so  richly  dight." 
More  Heaven  then  Earth  was  here,  no  winter  &  no  night. 

Then  on  a  stately  Oak  I  cast  mine  Eye,  15 

Whose  ruffling  top  the  Clouds  seem'd  to  aspire: 
"How  long  since  thou  wast  in  thine  Infancy? 
Thy  strength  and  stature,  more  thy  years  admire. 
Hath  hundred  winters  past  since  thou  wast  bora, 
Or  thousand  since  thou  brakest  thy  shell  of  horn?  20 

If  so,  all  these  as  nought  Eternity  doth  scorn." 

Then  higher  on  the  glistering  Sun  I  gaz'd, 

Whose  beams  was  shaded  by  the  leavie  Tree, 

The  more  I  look'd  the  more  I  grew  amaz'd, 

And  softly  said:  "What  glory 's  like  to  thee,  25 

Soul  of  this  world,  this  Universes  Eye  ? 

No  wonder  some  made  thee  a  Deity: 

Had  I  not  better  known,  alas,  the  same  had  I. 

"Thou  as  a  Bridegroom  from  thy  Chamber  rushes, 
And  as  a  strong  man  joyes  to  run  a  race;  30 

The  morn  doth  usher  thee  with  smiles  &  blushes, 
The  Earth  reflects  her  glances  in  thy  face; 
Birds,  insects,  Animals,  with  Vegative, 
Thy  heart  from  death  and  dulness  doth  revive, 
And  in  the  darksome  womb  of  fruitful  nature  dive.  35 

"Thy  swift  Annual  and  diurnal  Course, 
Thy  daily  streight  and  yearly  oblique  path, 
Thy  pleasing  fervor  and  thy  scorching  force, 
All  mortals  here  the  feeling  knowledg  hath. 
Thy  presence  makes  it  day,  thy  absence  night;  40 

Quaternal  Seasons  caused  by  thy  might. 
Hail,  Creature  full  of  sweetness,  beauty,  &  delight  1 

"Art  thou  so  full  of  glory  that  no  Eye 
Hath  strength  thy  shining  Rayes  once  to  behold  ? 
And  is  thy  splendid  Throne  erect  so  high  45 

As  to  approach  it  can  no  earthly  mould  ? 


12  AMERICAN  POEMS 

How  full  of  glory,  then,  must  thy  Creator  be 
Who  gave  this  bright  light  luster  unto  thee: 
Admir'd,  ador'd  for  ever  be  that  Majesty!" 

Silent,  alone,  where  none  or  saw  or  heard,  50 

In  pathless  paths  I  lead  my  wandring  feet, 

My  humble  Eyes  to  lofty  Skyes  I  rear'd: 

To  sing  some  Song  my  mazed  Muse  thought  meet; 

My  great  Creator  I  would  magnifie, 

That  nature  had  thus  decked  liberally;  55 

But  Ah,  and  Ah  again,  my  imbecility! 

I  heard  the  merry  grashopper  then  sing, 

The  black-clad  Cricket  bear  a  second  part; 

They  kept  one  tune  and  plaid  on  the  same  string, 

Seeming  to  glory  in  their  little  Art.  60 

Shall  Creatures  abject  thus  their  voices  raise, 

And  in  their  kind  resound  their  makers  praise, 

Whilst  I  as  mute  can  warble  forth  no  higher  layes  ? 

When  present  times  look  back  to  Ages  past, 

And  men  in  being  fancy  those  are  dead,  65 

It  makes  tilings  gone  perpetually  to  last, 

And  calls  back  moneths  and  years  that  long  since  fled; 

It  makes  a  man  more  aged  in  conceit 

Then  was  Methuselah  or  's  grand-sire  great, 

While  of  their  persons  &  their  acts  his  mind  doth  treat.    70 

Sometimes  in  Eden  fair  he  seems  to  be; 

Sees  glorious  Adam  there  made  Lord  of  all; 

Fancyes  the  Apple  dangle  on  the  Tree, 

That  turn'd  his  Sovereign  to  a  naked  thral, 

Who  like  a  miscreant 's  driven  from  that  place,  75 

To  get  his  bread  with  pain  and  sweat  of  face, 

A  penalty  impos'd  on  his  backsliding  Race. 

Here  sits  our  Grandame  in  retired  place, 

And  in  her  lap  her  bloody  Cain  new  born; 

The  weeping  Imp  oft  looks  her  in  the  face,  80 

Bewails  his  unknown  hap  and  fate  forlorn: 

His  Mother  sighs  to  think  of  Paradise, 

And  how  she  lost  her  bliss  to  be  more  wise, 

Believing  him  that  was  and  is  Father  of  lyes. 


ANNE  BRADSTREET  13 


Here  Cain  and  Abel  come  to  sacrifice;  8s 

Fruits  of  the  Earth  and  Fallings  each  do  bring: 

On  Abels  gift  the  fire  descends  from  Skies, 

But  no  such  sign  on  false  Cain's  offering. 

With  sullen  hateful  looks  he  goes  his  wayes, 

Hath  thousand  thoughts  to  end  his  brothers  dayes,  90 

Upon  whose  blood  his  future  good  he  hopes  to  raise. 

There  Abel  keeps  his  sheep,  no  ill  he  thinks; 

His  brother  comes,  then  acts  his  fratricide: 

The  Virgin  Earth  of  blood  her  first  draught  drinks, 

But  since  that  time  she  often  hath  been  cloy'd.  95 

The  wretch,  with  gastly  face  and  dreadful  mind, 

Thinks  each  he  sees  will  serve  him  in  his  kind, 

Though  none  on  Earth  but  kindred  near  then  could  he  find. 

Who  fancyes  not  his  looks  now  at  the  Barr  ? 

His  face  like  death,  his  heart  with  horror  fraught.  100 

Nor  Male-factor  ever  felt  like  wan 

When  deep  dispair  with  wish  of  life  hath  fought. 

Branded  with  guilt  and  crusht  with  treble  woes, 

A  Vagabond  to  Land  of  Nod  he  goes; 

A  City  builds,  that  wals  might  him  secure  from  foes.       105 

Who  thinks  not  oft  upon  the  Fathers  ages  ? 

Their  long  descent;   how  nephews  sons  they  saw; 

The  starry  observations  of  those  Sages, 

And  how  their  precepts  to  their  sons  were  law; 

How  Adam  sigh'd  to  see  his  Progeny  nc 

Cloath'd  all  in  his  black  sinfull  Livery, 

Who  neither  guilt  nor  yet  the  punishment  could  fly. 

Our  Life  compare  we  with  their  length  of  dayes; 

Who  to  the  tenth  of  theirs  doth  now  arrive  ? 

And  though  thus  short,  we  shorten  many  wayes,  115 

Living  so  little  while  we  are  alive: 

In  eating,  drinking,  sleeping,  vain  delight, 

So  unawares  comes  on  perpetual  night, 

And  puts  all  pleasures  vain  unto  eternal  flight. 

When  I  behold  the  heavens  as  in  their  prime,  120 

And  then  the  earth,  though  old,  stil  clad  in  green, 
The  stones  and  trees  insensible  of  time, 


I4  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Nor  age  nor  wrinkle  on  their  front  are  seen; 

If  winter  come  and  greeness  then  do  fade, 

A  Spring  returns  and  they  more  youthfull  made;  125 

But  Man  grows  old,  lies  down,  remains  where  once  he 's  laid : 

By  birth  more  noble  then  those  creatures  all, 

Yet  seems  by  nature  and  by  custome  curs'd: 

No  sooner  born  but  grief  and  care  makes  fall, 

That  state  obliterate  he  had  at  first;  130 

Nor  youth  nor  strength  nor  wisdom  spring  again, 

Nor  habitations  long  their  names  retain, 

But  in  oblivion  to  the  final  day  remain. 

Shall  I,  then,  praise  the  heavens,  the  trees,  the  earth, 

Because  their  beauty  and  their  strength  last  longer?       135 

Shall  I  wish  there  or  never  to  had  birth, 

Because  they  're  bigger,  &  their  bodyes  stronger  ? 

Nay,  they  shall  darken,  perish,  fade,  and  dye, 

And  when  unmade  so  ever  shall  they  lye; 

But  man  was  made  for  endless  immortality.  140 

Under  the  cooling  shadow  of  a  stately  Elm, 

Close  sate  I  by  a  goodly  Rivers  side, 

Where  gliding  streams  the  Rocks  did  overwhelm; 

A  lonely  place,  with  pleasures  dignifi'd. 

I  once  that  lov'd  the  shady  woods  so  well  145 

Now  thought  the  rivers  did  the  trees  excel; 

And  if  the  sun  would  ever  shine,  there  would  I  dwell. 

While  on  the  stealing  stream  I  fixt  mine  eye, 
Which  to  the  long'd  for  Ocean  held  its  course, 
I  markt  nor  crooks  nor  rubs  that  there  did  lye  150 

Could  hinder  ought,  but  still  augment  its  force: 
"O  happy  Flood,"  quoth  I,  "that  holds  thy  race 
Till  thou  arrive  at  thy  beloved  place, 
Nor  is  it  rocks  or  shoals  that  can  obstruct  thy  pace. 

"Nor  is  't  enough  that  thou  alone  may'st  slide,  155 

But  hundred  brooks  in  thy  cleer  waves  do  meet; 
So  hand  in  hand  along  with  thee  they  glide 
To  Thetis  house,  where  all  imbrace  and  greet: 


ANNE  BRADSTREET  15 

Thou  Emblem  true  of  what  I  count  the  best, 

0  could  I  lead  my  Rivolets  to  rest,  160 
So  may  we  press  to  that  vast  mansion  ever  blest  I 

"Ye  Fish  which  in  this  liquid  Region  'bide, 
That  for  each  season  have  your  habitation, 
Now  salt,  now  fresh,  where  you  think  best  to  glide 
To  unknown  coasts  to  give  a  visitation,  165 

In  Lakes  and  ponds  you  leave  your  numerous  fry; 
So  nature  taught,  and  yet  you  know  not  why, 
You  watry  folk  that  know  not  your  felicity. 

Look  how  the  wantons  frisk  to  tast  the  air, 

Then  to  the  colder  bottome  streight  they  dive;  170 

Eftsoon  to  Neptun's  glassie  Hall  repair, 

To  see  what  trade  they  great  ones  there  do  drive, 

Who  forrage  o're  the  spacious  sea-green  field 

And  take  the  trembling  prey  before  it  yield, 

Whose  armour  is  their  scales,  their  spreading  fins 

their  shield."  175 

While  musing  thus,  with  contemplation  fed, 

And  thousand  fancies  buzzing  in  my  brain, 

The  sweet-tongu'd  Philomel  percht  ore  my  head, 

And  chanted  forth  a  most  melodious  strain; 

Which  rapt  me  so  with  wonder  and  delight  180 

1  judg'd  my  hearing  better  then  my  sight, 

And  wisht  me  wings  with  her  a  while  to  take  my  flight. 

"O  merry  Bird,"  said  I,  "that  fears  no  snares, 
That  neither  toyles  nor  hoards  up  in  thy  barn, 
Feels  no  sad  thoughts,  nor  cruciating  cares  185 

To  gain  more  good  or  shun  what  might  thee  harm; 
Thy  cloaths  ne're  wear,  thy  meat  is  every  where, 
Thy  bed  a  bough,  thy  drink  the  water  cleer; 
Reminds  not  what  is  past,  nor  whats  to  come  dost 
fear. 

"The  dawning  morn  with  songs  thou  dost  prevent.  190 

Sets  hundred  notes  unto  thy  feathered  crew, 
So  each  one  tunes  his  pretty  instrument 


16  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And,  warbling  out  the  old,  begin  anew; 

And  thus  they  pass  their  youth  in  summer  season, 

Then  follow  thee  into  a  better  Region,  Ig5 

Where  winter 's  never  felt  by  that  sweet  airy  legion." 

Man  at  the  best  a  creature  frail  and  vain, 
In  knowledg  ignorant,  in  strength  but  weak, 
Subject  to  sorrows,  losses,  sickness,  pain, 
Each  storm  his  state,  his  mind,  his  body  break;  200 

From  some  of  these  he  never  finds  cessation, 
But  day  or  night,  within,  without,  vexation, 
Troubles  from  foes,  from  friends,  from  dearest,  near'st 
Relation. 

And  yet  this  sinfull  creature,  frail  and  vain, 
This  lump  of  wretchedness,  of  sin  and  sorrow,  205 

This  weather-beaten  vessel  wrackt  with  pain, 
Joyes  not  in  hope  of  an  eternal  morrow; 
Nor  all  his  losses,  crosses,  and  vexation, 
In  weight,  in  frequency  and  long  duration, 
Can  make  him  deeply  groan  for  that  divine  Transla 
tion.  2IO 

The  Mariner  that  on  smooth  waves  doth  glide 

Sings  merrily  and  steers  his  Barque  with  ease, 

As  if  he  had  command  of  wind  and  tide, 

And  now  become  great  Master  of  the  seas; 

But  suddenly  a  storm  spoiles  all  the  sport,  215 

And  makes  him  long  for  a  more  quiet  port, 

Which  'gainst  all  adverse  winds  may  serve  for  fort. 

So  he  that  saileth  in  this  world  of  pleasure, 

Feeding  on  sweets,  that  never  bit  of  th'  sowre, 

That 's  full  of  friends,  of  honour,  and  of  treasure,  220 

Fond  fool,  he  takes  this  earth  ev'n  for  heav'ns  bower. 

But  sad  affliction  comes  &  makes  him  see 

Here  's  neither  honour,  wealth,  nor  safety: 

Only  above  is  found  all  with  security. 

O  Time,  the  fatal  wrack  of  mortal  things,  225 

That  draws  oblivions  curtains  over  kings, 

Their  sumptuous  monuments,  men  know  them  not, 


ANNE  BRADSTREET  17 

Their  names  without  a  Record  are  forgot, 

Their  parts,  their  ports,  their  pomp 's  all  laid  in  th'  dust, 

Nor  wit  nor  gold  nor  buildings  scape  times  rust:  230 

But  he  whose  name  is  grav'd  in  the  white  stone 

Shall  last  and  shine  when  all  of  these  are  gone. 

1678. 

A  LETTER  TO  HER  HUSBAND 

Phcebus,  make  haste:  the  day 's  too  long;  be  gone; 

The  silent  night 's  the  fittest  time  for  moan. 

But  stay  this  once,  unto  my  suit  give  ear, 

And  tell  my  griefs  in  either  Hemisphere; 

And  if  the  whirling  of  thy  wheels  don't  drown'd  5 

The  woful  accents  of  my  doleful  sound, 

If  in  thy  swift  Carrier  thou  canst  make  stay, 

I  crave  this  boon,  this  Errand  by  the  way: 

Commend  me  to  the  man  more  lov'd  then  life; 

Shew  him  the  sorrows  of  his  widdowed  wife,  10 

My  dumpish  thoughts,  my  groans,  my  brakish  tears, 

My  sobs,  my  longing  hopes,  my  doubting  fears; 

And  if  he  love,  how  can  he  there  abide  ? 

My  Interest 's  more  then  all  the  world  beside. 

He  that  can  tell  the  Starrs  or  Ocean  sand,  15 

Or  all  the  grass  that  in  the  Meads  do  stand, 

The  leaves  in  th'  woods,  the  hail  or  drops  of  rain, 

Or  in  a  corn-field  number  every  grain, 

Or  every  mote  that  in  the  sun-shine  hops, 

May  count  my  sighs  and  number  all  my  drops.  20 

Tell  him  the  countless  steps  that  thou  dost  trace 

That  once  a  day  thy  Spouse  thou  mayst  imbrace; 

And  when  thou  canst  not  treat  by  loving  mouth, 

Thy  rayes  afar  salute  her  from  the  south. 

But  for  one  moneth  I  see  no  day,  poor  soul,  25 

Like  those  far  scituate  under  the  pole, 

Which  day  by  day  long  wait  for  thy  arise: 

O  how  they  joy  when  thou  dost  light  the  skyes. 

O  Phoebus,  hadst  thou  but  thus  long  from  thine 

Restrain'd  the  beams  of  thy  beloved  shine,  30 

At  thy  return,  if  so  thou  could'st  or  durst, 

Behold  a  Chaos  blacker  then  the  first. 


1 8  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Tell  him  here  's  worse  then  a  confused  matter — 
His  little  world  's  a  fathom  under  water; 
Nought  but  the  fervor  of  his  ardent  beams  35 

Hath  power  to  dry  the  torrent  of  these  streams. 
Tell  him  I  would  say  more,  but  cannot  well: 
Oppressed  minds  abruptest  tales  do  tell. 
Now  post  with  double  speed,  mark  what  I  say; 
By  all  our  loves  conjure  him  not  to  stay.  40 

1678. 

LONGING  FOR  HEAVEN 

As  weary  pilgrim  now  at  rest 

Hugs  with  delight  his  silent  nest, 
His  wasted  limbes  now  lye  full  soft 

That  myrie  steps  have  troden  oft, 
Blesses  himself  to  think  upon  5 

his  dangers  past  and  travailes  done; 
The  burning  sun  no  more  shall  heat, 

Nor  stormy  raines  on  him  shall  beat; 
The  bryars  and  thornes  no  more  shall  scratch, 

nor  hungry  wolves  at  him  shall  catch;  10 

He  erring  pathes  no  more  shall  tread, 

nor  wild  fruits  eate  in  stead  of  bread; 
for  waters  cold  he  doth  not  long, 

for  thirst  no  more  shall  parch  his  tongue; 
No  rugged  stones  his  feet  shall  gaule,  15 

nor  stumps  nor  rocks  cause  him  to  fall; 
All  cares  and  feares  he  bids  farwell, 

and  meanes  in  safity  now  to  dwell: 
A  pilgrim  I  on  earth  perplext, 

with  sinns,  with  cares  and  sorrows  vext,  20 

By  age  and  paines  brought  to  decay, 

and  my  Clay  house  mouldring  away, 
Oh  how  I  long  to  be  at  rest 

and  soare  on  high  among  the  blest! 
This  body  shall  in  silence  sleep,  25 

Mine  eyes  no  more  shall  ever  weep, 
No  fainting  fits  shall  me  assaile, 

nor  grinding  paines  my  body  fraile, 
With  cares  and  fears  ne'r  cumbred  be, 

Nor  losses  know  nor  sorrowes  see.  30 


MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH  19 

What  tho  my  flesh  shall  there  consume  ? 

it  is  the  bed  Christ  did  perfume; 
And  when  a  few  yeares  shall  be  gone, 

this  mortall  shall  be  cloth'd  upon: 
A  Corrupt  Carcasse  downe  it  lyes,  35 

a  glorious  body  it  shall  rise; 
In  weaknes  and  dishonour  sowne, 

in  power  't  is  rais'd  by  Christ  alone. 
Then  soule  and  body  shall  unite, 

and  of  their  maker  have  the  sight.  40 

Such  lasting  joyes  shall  there  behold 

as  eare  ne'r  heard  nor  tongue  e'er  told. 
Lord,  make  me  ready  for  that  day : 

then  Come,  deare  bridgrome,  Come  away! 
1669.  1867. 


MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH 

FROM 

THE  DAY  OF  DOOM 

Still  was  the  night,  Serene  &  Bright, 

when  all  Men  sleeping  lay; 
Calm  was  the  season,  &  carnal  reason 

thought  so  'twould  last  for  ay. 
"Soul,  take  thine  ease;  let  sorrow  cease;  5 

much  good  thou  hast  in  store:" 
This  was  their  Song,  their  Cups  among, 

the  Evening  before. 

Wallowing  in  all  kind  of  sin, 

vile  wretches  lay  secure:  10 

The  best  of  men  had  scarcely  then 

their  Lamps  kept  in  good  ure. 
Virgins  unwise,  Who  through  disguise 

amongst  the  best  were  number'd, 
Had  clos'd  their  eyes;  yea,  and  the  wise  15 

through  sloth  and  frailty  slumber'd. 

Like  as  of  old,  when  Men  grow  bold 
God's  threatnings  to  contemn, 


20  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Who  stopt  their  Ear  and  would  not  hear 

when  Mercy  warned  them,  20 

But  took  their  course,  without  remorse, 

till  God  began  to  powre 
Destruction  the  World  upon 

in  a  tempestuous  showre; 

They  put  away  the  evil  day,  25 

and  drown'd  their  care  and  fears, 
Till  drown'd  were  they  and  swept  away 

by  vengeance  unawares: 
So  at  the  last,  whilst  Men  sleep  fast 

in  their  security,  30 

Surpriz'd  they  are  in  such  a  snare 

as  cometh  suddenly. 

For  at  midnight  break  forth  a  Light 

which  turn'd  the  night  to  day, 
And  speedily  an  hideous  cry  35 

did  all  the  world  dismay. 
Sinners  awake,  their  hearts  do  ake, 

trembling  their  loynes  surprizeth; 
Amaz'd  with  fear  by  what  they  hear, 

each  one  of  them  arise th.  40 

They  rush  from  Beds  with  giddy  heads, 

and  to  their  windows  run, 
Viewing  this  light,  which  shines  more  bright 

then  doth  the  Noon-day  Sun. 
Straightway  appears  (they  see  't  with  tears)  45 

the  Son  of  God  most  dread, 
Who  with  his  Train  comes  on  amain 

to  judge  both  Quick  and  Dead. 

Before  his  face  the  Heav'ns  gave  place, 

and  Skies  are  rent  asunder,  50 

With  mighty  voice  and  hideous  noise 

more  terrible  than  Thunder. 

His  brightness  damps  heav'ns  glorious  lamps 

and  makes  them  hide  their  heads; 
As  if  afraid  and  quite  dismay'd,  55 

they  quit  their  wonted  steads 


MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH 


His  winged  Hosts  flie  through  all  Coasts, 

together  gethering 
Both  good  and  bad,  both  quick  and  dead, 

and  all  to  judgment  bring.  60 

Out  of  their  holes  those  creeping  Moles 

that  hid  themselves  for  fear 
By  force  they  take  and  quickly  make 

before  the  Judge  appear  ..... 

All  silence  keep  both  Goats  and  Sheep  65 

before  the  Judge's  Throne; 
With  mild  aspect  to  his  Elect 

then  spake  the  holy  One: 
"  My  Sheep,  draw  near,  your  Sentence  hear, 

which  is  to  you  no  dread,  70 

Who  clearly  now  discern  and  know 

your  sins  are  pardoned.".  .  .  . 

The  wicked  are  brought  to  the  Bar 

like  guilty  Malefactors 
That  oftentimes  of  bloody  Crimes  75 

and  Treasons  have  been  Actors. 
Of  wicked  Men  none  are  so  mean 

as  there  to  be  neglected, 
Nor  none  so  high  in  dignity 

as  there  to  be  respected  .....  80 

Nevertheless  they  all  express, 

Christ  granting  liberty, 
What  for  their  way  they  have  to  say, 

how  they  have  liv'd,  and  why. 
They  all  draw  near  and  seek  to  clear  85 

themselves  by  making  pleas. 
There  Hypocrites,  false-hearted  wights, 

do  make  such  pleas  as  these: 

"Lord,  in  thy  Name  and  by  the  same 

we  Devils  dispossest.  90 

We  rais'd  the  dead,  and  ministred 

succour  to  the  distrest. 
Our  painful  teaching  &  pow'rful  preaching 

by  thine  own  wondrous  might 


22  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Did  throughly  win  to  God  from  sin  95 

many  a  wretched  wight." 

"All  this,"  quoth  he,  "may  granted  be, 

and  your  case  little  better'd, 
Who  still  remain  under  a  chain 

and  many  irons  fetter'd.  100 

You  that  the  dead  have  quickened 

and  rescu'd  from  the  grave, 
Your  selves  were  dead,  yet  never  need 

a  Christ  your  Souls  to  save.".  .  .  . 

Then  at  the  Bar  arraigned  are  105 

an  impudenter  sort, 
Who,  to  evade  the  guilt  that 's  laid 

upon  them,  thus  retort: 
"How  could  we  cease  thus  to  transgress, 

how  could  we  Hell  avoid,  no 

Whom  Gods  Decree  shut  out  from  thee, 

and  sign'd  to  be  destroy'd  ?".  .  .  . 

Christ  readily  makes  this  Reply : 

"I  damn  you  not  because 
You  are  rejected  or  not  elected,  115 

but  you  have  broke  my  Laws; 
It  is  but  vain  your  wits  to  strain, 

the  end  and  means  to  sever: 
Men  fondly  seek  to  part  or  break 

what  God  hath  link'd  together.  120 

"Whom  God  will  save,  such  he  will  have 

the  means  of  life  to  use; 
Whom  he  '11  pass  by  shall  chuse  to  dy, 

and  ways  of  life  refuse. 
He  that  fore-sees  and  fore-decrees  125 

in  wisdom  order'd  has 
That  man's  free  will,  electing  ill, 

shall  bring  his  will  to  pass.".  .  .  . 

Then  to  the  Bar  all  they  drew  near 

who  dy'd  in  infancy,  130 

And  never  had  or  good  or  bad 

effected  pers'nally, 


MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH  23 

But  from  the  womb  unto  the  tomb 

were  straightway  carried 
(Or  at  the  least  e're  they  transgrest);  135 

who  thus  began  to  plead: 

"  If  for  our  own  transgression 

or  disobedience 
We  here  did  stand  at  thy  left  hand, 

just  were  the  Recompence;  140 

But  Adam's  guilt  our  souls  hath  spilt, 

his  fault  is  charg'd  on  us, 
And  that  alone  hath  overthrown 

and  utterly  undone  us.".  .  .  . 

Then  answered  the  Judge  most  dread:  145 

"  God  doth  such  doom  forbid, 
That  men  should  dye  eternally 

for  what  they  never  did. 
But  what  you  call  old  Adam's  Fall, 

and  only  his  Trespass,  150 

You  call  amiss  to  call  it  his, 

both  his  and  yours  it  was.".  .  .  . 

"You  sinners  are,  and  such  a  share 

as  sinners  may  expect 
Such  you  shall  have;  for  I  do  save  155 

none  but  my  own  Elect. 
Yet  to  compare  your  sin  with  their 

who  liv'd  a  longer  time, 
I  do  confess  yours  is  much  less, 

though  every  sin 's  a  crime.  1 60 

"A  Crime  it  is;  therefore  in  bliss 

you  may  not  hope  to  dwell, 
But  unto  you  I  shall  allow 

the  easiest  room  in  Hell." 
The  glorious  King  thus  answering,  165 

they  cease,  and  plead  no  longer: 
Their  Consciences  must  needs  confess 

his  Reasons  are  the  stronger 

Unto  the  Saints  with  sad  complaints 

should  they  themselves  apply  ?  170 


24  AMERICAN  POEMS 

They're  not  dejected  nor  ought  affected 

with  all  their  misery. 
Friends  stand  aloof,  and  make  no  proof 

what  Prayers  or  Tears  can  do: 
Your  godly  friends  are  now  more  friends  175 

to  Christ  than  unto  you. 

Where  tender  love  mens  hearts  did  move 

unto  a  sympathy, 
And  bearing  part  of  others  smart 

in  their  anxiety,  180 

Now  such  compassion  is  out  of  fashion, 

and  wholly  laid  aside: 
No  Friends  so  near  but  Saints  to  hear 

their  Sentence  can  abide. 

One  natural  Brother  beholds  another  185 

in  his  astonied  fit, 
Yet  sorrows  not  thereat  a  jot, 

nor  pities  him  a  whit. 
The  godly  wife  conceives  no  grief 

nor  can  she  shed  a  tear  190 

For  the  sad  state  of  her  dear  Mate 

when  she  his  doom  doth  hear. 

He  that  was  erst  a  Husband,  pierc't 

with  sense  of  Wives  distress, 
Whose  tender  heart  did  bear  a  part  195 

of  all  her  grievances, 
Shall  mourn  no  more  as  heretofore 

because  of  her  ill  plight, 
Although  he  see  her  now  to  be 

A  damn'd  forsaken  wight.  200 

The  tender  Mother  will  own  no  other 

of  all  her  numerous  brood 
But  such  as  stand  at  Christ's  right  hand 

acquitted  through  his  Blood. 
The  pious  father  had  now  much  rather  205 

his  graceless  Son  should  ly 
In  Hell  with  Devils,  for  all  his  evils, 

burning  eternally, 


MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH  25 

Then  God  most  high  should  injury 

by  sparing  him  sustain,  210 

And  doth  rejoyce  to  hear  Christ's  voice 

adjudging  him  to  pain. 
Who  having  all,  both  great  and  small, 

convinc'd  and  silenced, 
Did  then  proceed  their  Doom  to  read,  215 

and  thus  it  uttered: 

'  Ye  sinful  wights  and  cursed  sprights 

that  work  iniquity, 
Depart  together  from  me  for  ever 

to  endless  Misery;  220 

Your  portion  take  in  yonder  Lake, 

where  Fire  and  Brimstone  flameth: 
Suffer  the  smart  which  your  desert 

as  it 's  due  wages  claimeth.".  .  .  . 

They  wring  their  hands,  their  caitiff-hands,  223 

and  gnash  their  teeth  for  terrour; 
They  cry,  they  roar  for  anguish  sore, 

and  gnaw  their  tongues  for  horrour. 
But  get  away  without  delay, 

Christ  pities  not  your  cry:  230 

Depart  to  Hell;  there  may  you  yell 

and  roar  Eternally 

The  Saints  behold  with  courage  hold 

and  thankful  wonderment 
To  see  all  those  that  were  their  foes  235 

thus  sent  to  punishment: 
Then  do  they  sing  unto  their  King 

a  Song  of  endless  Praise; 
They  praise  his  Name,  and  do  proclaim 

that  just  are  all  his  ways.  240 

Thus  with  great  joy  and  melody 

to  Heav'n  they  all  ascend, 
Him  there  to  praise  with  sweetest  layes 

and  Hymes  that  never  end: 
Where  with  long  rest  they  shall  be  blest,  245 

and  nought  shall  them  annoy; 


26  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Where  they  shall  see  as  seen  they  be, 
and  whom  they  love  enjoy. 

O  glorious  Place !  where  face  to  face 

Jehovah  may  be  seen  250 

By  such  as  were  sinners  while  here, 

and  no  dark  vail  between. 
Where  the  Sun-shine  and  light  Divine 

of  Gods  bright  countenance 
Doth  rest  upon  them  every  one,  255 

with  sweetest  influence. 

O  blessed  state  of  the  Renate! 

O  wondrous  Happiness 
To  which  they're  brought,  beyond  what  thought 

can  reach  or  words  express!  260 

Griefs  water-course  and  sorrows  sourse    . 

are  turn'd  to  joyful  streams; 
Their  old  distress  and  heaviness 

are  vanished  like  dreams. 

For  God  above  in  arms  of  love  265 

doth  dearly  them  embrace, 
And  fills  their  sprights  with  such  delights 

and  pleasures  in  his  grace, 
As  shall  not  fail  nor  yet  grow  stale 

through  frequency  of  use;  270 

Nor  do  they  fear  Gods  favour  there 

to  forfeit  by  abuse: 

For  there  the  Saints  are  perfect  Saints 

and  holy  ones  indeed, 
From  all  the  sin  that  dwelt  within  275 

their  mortal  bodies  freed; 
Made  Kings  &  Priests  to  God  through  Christ's 

dear  loves  transcendency, 
There  to  remain  and  there  to  reign 

with  him  Eternally.  280 

1662. 


MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH  27 

FROM 

GOD'S  CONTROVERSY  WITH  NEW-ENGLAND 
(WRITTEN  IN  THE  TIME  or  THE  GREAT  DROUGHT,  ANNO  1662) 

Are  these  the  folk  whom  from  the  brittish  lies, 
Through  the  stern  billows  of  the  watry  main, 

I  safely  led  so  many  thousand  miles, 

As  if  their  journey  had  been  through  a  plain  ? 

Whom  having  from  all  enemies  protected,  5 

And  through  so  many  deaths  and  dangers  well  directed, 

I  brought  and  planted  on  the  western  shore, 

Where  nought  but  bruits  and  salvage  wights  did  swarm 

(Untaught,  untrain'd,  untam'd  by  vertue's  lore), 

That  sought  their  blood,  yet  could  not  do  them  harm  ?  10 

My  fury's  flaile  them  thresht,  my  fatall  broom 

Did  sweep  them  hence  to  make  my  people  elbow-room. 

Are  these  the  men  whose  gates  with  peace  I  crown'd, 

To  whom  for  bulwarks  I  salvation  gave, 
Whilst  all  things  else  with  rattling  tumults  sound,  15 

And  mortall  frayes  send  thousands  to  the  grave, 
Whitest  their  own  brethren  bloody  hands  embrewed 
In  brothers  blood  and  fields  with  carcases  bestrewed  ?  .  .  .  . 

• 
Are  these  the  folk  to  whom  I  milked  out 

And  sweetnes  stream'd  from  consolations  brest  ?  20 

Whose  soules  I  fed  and  strengthened  throughout 

With  finest  spirituall  food  most  finely  drest  ? 
On  whom  I  rained  living  bread  from  Heaven, 

Withouten  Errour's  bane  or  Superstition's  leaven  ?  .  .  .  . 

If  these  be  they,  how  is  it  that  I  find  25 

In  stead  of  holiness  Carnality, 
In  stead  of  heavenly  frames  an  Earthly  mind, 

For  burning  zeal  luke-warm  Indifferency, 
For  flaming  love  key-cold  Dead-heartedness, 
For  temperance  (in  meat  and  drinke  and  cloaths)  excess  ?  30 


Ah  dear  New  England!  dearest  land  to  me, 
Which  unto  God  hast  hitherto  been  dear, 


28  AMERICAN  POEMS 

And  mayst  be  still  more  dear  than  formerlie 
If  to  his  voice  thou  wilt  incline  thine  ear: 

Consider  wel  &  wisely  what  the  rod  ,5 

Wherewith  thou  art  from  yeer  to  yeer  chastized 

Instructeth  thee;  repent  &  turn  to  God, 
Who  wil  not  have  his  nurture  be  despized. 

Thou  still  hast  in  thee  many  praying  saints, 

Of  great  account  and  precious  with  the  Lord,  4o 

Who  dayly  powre  out  unto  him  their  plaints, 
And  strive  to  please  him  both  in  deed  &  word. 

Cheer  on,  sweet  souls;  my  heart  is  with  you  all, 

And  shall  be  with  you,  maugre  Sathan's  might; 
And  whereso'ere  this  body  be  a  Thrall,  45 

Still  in  New-England  shall  be  my  delight. 
1662. 


NEW  ENGLAND  ELEGIES 

FROM 

UPON  THE  TOMB  OF  THE  MOST  REVEREND  MR.  JOHN  COTTON 

LATE   TEACHER   OF   THE   CHURCH   OF   BOSTON   IN   NEW-ENGLAND 
(BY   B.  W.) 

A  living  breathing  Bible:  Tables  where 

Both  Covenants  at  large  engraven  were; 

Gospel  and  Law  in  's  Heart  had  each  its  Colume, 

His  Head  an  Index  to  the  Sacred  Volume; 

His  very  Name  a  Title  Page;  and  next,  5 

His  Life  a  Commentary  on  the  Text. 

O  what  a  Monument  of  glorious  worth, 

When  in  a  New  Edition  he  comes  forth 

Without  Errata's,  may  we  think  hee  '11  be 

In  Leaves  and  Covers  of  Eternitiel  10 

A  man  of  Might  at  heavenly  Eloquence 

To  fix  the  Ear  and  charm  the  Conscience, 

As  if  A  polios  were  reviv'd  in  him 

Or  he  had  learned  of  a  Seraphim. 


NEW  ENGLAND  ELEGIES  29 

Spake  many  Tongues  in  one:  one  Voice  and  Sense  15 

Wrought  Joy  and  Sorrow,  Fear  and  Confidence. 
Rocks  rent  before  him,  Blinde  receiv'd  their  sight, 
Souls  levell'd  to  the  dunghil  stood  upright; 
Infernal  Furies  burst  with  rage  to  see 
Their  Pris'ners  captiv'd  into  Libertie.  20 

A  Star  that  in  our  Eastern  England  rose, 
Thence  hurry'd  by  the  Blast  of  stupid  foes, 
Whose  foggy  Darkness  and  benummed  Senses 
Brook'd  not  his  daz'ling  fervent  Influences. 
Thus  did  he  move  on  Earth  from  East  to  West;  25 

There  he  went  down,  and  up  to  Heaven  for  Rest. 
1652?  1669. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT  THE  APPROACH  OF  DEATH 
(BY  THOMAS  DUDLEY) 

Dim  Eyes,  deaf  Ears,  cold  stomack  shew 

My  dissolution  is  in  view. 

Eleven  times  seven  near  liv'd  have  I, 

And,  now  God  calls,  I  willing  die. 

My  Shuttle 's  shot,  my  race  is  run,  5 

My  Sun  is  set,  my  Deed  is  done, 

My  Span  is  measur'd,  Tale  is  told, 

My  Flower  is  faded  and  grown  old, 

My  Dream  is  vanish'd,  Shadow  's  fled, 

My  Soul  with  Christ,  my  Body  dead.  10 

Farewel,  dear  Wife,  Children,  and  Friends: 

Hate  Heresie,  make  blessed  ends, 

Bear  Poverty,  live  with  good  men; 

So  shall  we  meet  with  joy  agen. 

Let  men  of  God  in  Courts  and  Churches  watch  15 

O're  such  as  do  a  Toleration  hatch, 
Lest  that  ill  Egg  bring  forth  a  Cockatrice 
To  poyson  all  with  Heresie  and  Vice. 
If  men  be  left  and  otherwise  combine, 
My  Epitaph 's,  I  dy'd  no  Libertine.  20 

1669. 


30  AMERICAN  POEMS 


ON  RALPH  PARTRIDGE 

R  un  is  his  Race, 

A  nd  his  work  done; 

L  eft  Earthly  place, 

P  artridge  is  gone, 

H  e  's  with  the  Father  and  the  Son. 

P  ure  joyes  and  constant  do  attend 
A  11  that  so  live;  such  is  their  end. 
R  eturn  he  shall  with  Christ  agen, 
T  o  Judge  both  just  and  sinful  men. 
R  ais'd  is  this  Bird  of  Paradise; 
7   oy,  Heaven  entred,  breaks  the  ice. 
D  eath  under  foot  he  trodden  hath; 
G  race  is  to  Glory  straitest  Path; 
E  ver  enjoyes  Love  free  from  wrath. 
1658?  1669. 


FROM 

A  THRENODIA 

UPON   OUR    CHURCHES    SECOND    DARK   ECLIPSE,    HAPPENING    JULY    2O,    1663, 
BY  DEATHS    INTERPOSITION   BETWEEN   US  AND  THAT   GREAT  LIGHT  AND 

DIVINE  PLAN[E]T,  MR.  SAMUEL  STONE,  LATE  or  HARTFORD  IN  NEW- 
ENGLAND 

(BY  E.  B.) 

A  Stone  more  then  the  Eben-ezer  fam'd; 

Stone  splendent  Diamond,  right  Orient  nam'd; 

A  Cordiall  Stone,  that  often  cheared  hearts 

With  pleasant  Wit,  with  Gospel  rich  imparts; 

Whet-Stone,  that  Edgefi'd  th'  obtusest  Minde;  5 

Load-Stone,  that  drew  the  Iron  Heart  unkinde; 

A  Ponderous  Stone,  that  would  the  Bottom  sound 

Of  Scripture-depths,  and  bring  out  Arcan's  found; 

A  Stone  for  Kingly  David's  use  so  fit 

As  would  not  fail  Goliah's  Front  to  hit;  10 

A  Stone  an  Antidote,  that  brake  the  course 

Of  Gangrene  Errour  by  Convincing  force; 

A  Stone  Acute,  fit  to  divide  and  square; 


NEW  ENGLAND  ELEGIES  31 

A  Squared  Stone  became  Christ's  Building  rare; 
A  Peter's  Living  lively  Stone  (so  Reared),  15 

As,  'live  was  Hartfords  life,  dead,  death  is  feared. 

1669. 


FROM 

AN  ELEGIE  UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
REVEREND  MR.  THOMAS  SHEPARD 

(BY  URIAN  OAKES) 
Oh  that  I  were  a  Poet  now  in  grain ! 
How  would  I  invocate  the  Muses  all 
To  deign  their  presence,  lend  their  flowing  Vein, 
And  help  to  grace  dear  Shepard's  Funeral! 

How  would  I  paint  our  griefs,  and  succours  borrow         5 
From  Art  and  Fancy  to  limn  out  our  sorrow! 

Now  could  I  wish  (if  wishing  would  obtain) 

The  sprightli'est  Efforts  of  Poetick  Rage, 

To  vent  my  Griefs,  make  others  feel  my  pain, 

For  this  loss  of  the  Glory  of  our  Age.  10 

Here  is  a  subject  for  the  loftiest  Verse 

That  ever  waited  on  the  bravest  Hearse. 

And  could  my  Pen  ingeniously  distill 

The  purest  Spirits  of  a  sparkling  wit 

In  rare  conceits,  the  quintessence  of  skill  i5 

In  Elegiack  Strains,  none  like  to  it, 

I  should  think  all  too  little  to  condole 

The  fatal  loss  (to  us)  of  such  a  Soul. 

Could  I  take  highest  Flights  of  Fancy,  soar 

Aloft,  If  Wits  Monopoly  were  mine,  20 

All  would  be  much  too  low,  too  light,  too  poor, 

To  pay  due  tribute  to  this  great  Divine. 

Ah,  Wit  avails  not  when  th'  Heart 's  like  to  break; 

Great  griefs  are  Tongue- ti'ed   when    the    lesser 
speak 

His  Look  commanded  Reverence  and  Awe,  35 

Though  Mild  and  Amiable,  not  Austere: 


32  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Well  Humour'd  was  He  (as  I  ever  saw), 

And  rul'd  by  Love  and  Wisdome  more  than  Fear. 

The  Muses  and  the  Graces  too  conspir'd 

To  set  forth  this  Rare  Piece  to  be  admir'd.  30 

He  govern'd  well  the  Tongue  (that  busie  thing, 
Unruly,  Lawless  and  Pragmatical) : 
Gravely  Reserv'd,  in  Speech  not  lavishing, 
Neither  too  sparing  nor  too  liberal; 

His  Words  were  few,  well  season'd,  wisely  weigh'd,  35 

And  in  his  Tongue  the  Law  of  kindness  sway'd. 

Learned  he  was  beyond  the  common  Size; 

Befriended  much  by  Nature  in  his  Wit 

And  Temper  (Sweet,  Sedate,  Ingenious,  Wise) ; 

And  (which  crown'd  all)  he  was  Heav'ens  Favourite,  40 

On  whom  the  God  of  all  Grace  did  command 
And  show'r  down  Blessings  with  a  lib'eral  hand. 

Wise  He,  not  wily,  was;  Grave,  not  Morose; 

Not  stiff e  but  steady;  Seri'ous  but  not  Sowre; 

Concern'd  for  all,  as  if  he  had  no  Foes  45 

(Strange  if  he  had!);  and  would  not  wast  an  Hour; 
Thoughtful  and  Active  for  the  common  good, 
And  yet  his  own  place  wisely  understood 

See  where  our  Sister  Charlstown  sits  and  Moans! 

Poor  Widowed  Charlstown,  all  in  Dust,  in  Tears!  50 

Mark  how  she  wrings  her  hands!  hear  how  she  groans! 

See  how  she  weeps!  what  sorrow  like  to  hers! 

Charlstown,  that  might  for  joy  compare  of  late 

With  all  about  her,  now  looks  desolate. 

As  you  have  seen  some  Pale,  Wan,  Ghastly  look,  55 

When  grisly  Death,  that  will  not  be  said  nay, 
Hath  seiz'd  all  for  it  self,  Possession  took, 
And  turn'd  the  Soul  out  of  its  house  of  Clay, 

So  Visag'd  is  poor  Charlstown  at  this  day; 

Shepard,  her  very  Soul,  is  torn  away.  60 

Cambridge  groans  under  this  so  heavy  cross, 
And  Sympathizes  with  her  Sister  dear; 


NEW  ENGLAND  ELEGIES  33 

Renews  her  Griefs  afresh  for  her  old  loss 

Of  her  own  Stiepard,  and  drops  many  a  Tear. 

Cambridge  and  Charlstown  now  joint  Mourners  are,       65 
And  this  tremendous  loss  between  them  share. 

Must  Learnings  Friend  (Ah,  worth  us  all)  go  thus, 

That  Great  Support  to  Harvards  Nursery? 

Our  Fellow  (that  no  Fellow  had  with  us) 

Is  gone  to  Heave'ns  great  University:  70 

Our's  now  indeed  's  a  lifeless  Corporation; 

The  Soul  is  fled  that  gave  it  Animation! 

Farewel,  Dear  Shepard!  Thou  art  gone  before, 

Made  free  of  Heaven,  where  thou  shalt  sing  loud  Hymns 

Of  High  triumphant  Praises  evermore,  75 

In  the  sweet  Quire  of  Saints  and  Seraphims. 

Lord,  look  on  us  here,  clogg'd  with  sin  and  clay, 
And  we,  through  Grace,  shall  be  as  happy  as  they. 

My  Dearest,  Inmost,  Bosome-Friend  is  Gonel 

Gone  is  my  sweet  Companion,  Soul's  delight  I  80 

Now  in  an  Huddling  Croud  I  'm  all  alone, 

And  almost  could  bid  all  the  World  Goodnight. 

Blest  be  my  Rockl    God  lives:  Oh  let  him  be, 

As  He  is  All,  so  All  in  All  to  me. 
1677.  1677. 

FROM 

A  POEM  DEDICATED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
THE  REVEREND  AND  EXCELLENT 
MR.  URIAN  OAKES 

(BY  N.  a.) 

Well,  Reader,  Wipe  thine  Eyes!  &  see  the  Man 

(Almost  too  small  a  word !)  which  Cambridge  can 

Say,  "I  have  lost."     In  Name  a  Drusius, 

And  Nature,  too;  yea,  a  compendious 

Both  Magazine  of  worth  and  Follower  § 

Of  all  that  ever  great  and  famose  were 

A  great  Soul  in  a  little  Body.    (Add, 

In  a  small  Nutshell  Graces  Iliad.) 


34  AMERICAN  POEMS 


How  many  Angels  on  a  Needle's  point 

Can  stand  is  thought,  perhaps,  a  needless  Point:  10 

Oakes  Vertues  too  I  'me  at  a  loss  to  tell; 

In  short,  Hee  was  New-England's  SAMUEL, 

And  had  as  many  gallant  Propertyes 

As  ere  an  Oak  had  Leaves  or  Argus  Eyes. 

A  better  Christian  would  a  miracle  15 

Be  thought.    From  most  he  bore  away  the  Bell 

Oakes  an  Uncomfortable  Preacher  was, 
I  must  confess.  Hee  made  us  cry,  Alasst 
In  sad  Despair.  Of  what  ?  Of  ever  seeing 
A  better  Preacher  while  wee  have  a  beeing.  20 

Hee,  oh,  Hee  was  in  Doctrine,  Life,  and  all 
Angelical  and  Evangelical; 
A  Benedict  and  Boniface  to  boot, 
Commending  of  the  Tree  by  noble  Fruit. 

All  said,  " Our  Oakes  the  Double  Power  has  25 

Of  Boanerges  and  of  Barnabas. 
Hee  is  a  Christian  Nestor:  Oh,  that  wee 
Might  him  among  us  for  three  Ages  see! 
But,  ah,  Hee  's  gone  to  Sinus  Abraha" 

What  shall  I  say  ?     Never  did  any  spitt  30 

Gall  at  this  Gall-less,  Guile-less  Dove;  nor  yet 
Did  any  Envy  with  a  cankred  breath 
Blast  him.     It  was,  I  'me  sure,  the  gen'ral  Faith, 
Lett  Oakes  Bee,  Say,  or  Do  what  e're  he  wou'd 
If  it  were  OAKES  it  must  be  wise,  true,  good.  35 

Except  the  Secfryes  Hammer  might  a  blow 
Or  two  receive  from  Anabaptists,  who 
Never  lov'd  any  Man  that  wrote  a  Line 
Their  naught,  Church-rending  Cause  to  undermine. 
Yett  after  my  Encomiastick  Ink  4° 

Is  all  run  out,  I  must  conclude  (I  think) 
With  a  Dicebam,  not  a  Dixi.    Yea, 
Such  a  course  will  exceeding  proper  bee: 
The  Jews,  whene're  they  build  an  House,  do  leave 
Some  part  Imperfect,  as  a  call  to  grieve  45 

For  their  destroyed  Jerusalem;  I  'le  do  sol 
I  do  't! 


JOHN  GRAVE  35 


Lord,  Lett  us  Peace  on  this  our  Israel  see, 
And  still  both  Hephsibah  and  Beulah  bee! 

Then  will  thy  People  Grace  and  Glory  Sing,  50 

And  every  Wood  with  Hallelujah's  ring. 

1682. 


JOHN  GRAVE 

FROM 

A  SONG  OF  SIGN 

Be  silent  now,  all  People,  young  and  old, 

Give  ear,  all  Nations;  let  your  eyes  behold 

How  Christ's  pure  Light  most  glorious  doth  appear. 

O  all  mankind,  submit  to  him  in  fear; 

And  let  your  Priests  for  shame  deceive  no  more,  5 

For  Christ  doth  sure  destroy  great  Babel's  Whore, 

Which  proudly  doth  on  many  Waters  sit, 

And  to  Christ's  glorious  Light  will  not  submit, 

But  strictly  will  make  Laws  against  the  just, 

And  rob  the  harmcless  to  fulfil  their  lust.  10 

Was  ever  Pharaoh's  eye  more  wilful  blind  ? 

And  think  you  not  God's  wrath  as  sure  to  find  ? 

Would  you  prescribe  how  men  shall  serve  the  Lord, 

And  you  your  selves  God's  Laws  never  regard  ? 

O  wretched  men,  would  you  your  selves  enthrone  15 

And  seek  to  rule  where  Christ  should  rule  alone  ? 

Who  truly  will  reward  equal  and  right, 

According  as  each  loves  or  hates  his  Light. 

Dare  you  revenge  your  selves  upon  a  man 

That  fears  the  Lord  and  not  bow  to  you  can  ?  20 

Or  for  reproving  you  of  any  ill 

Will  you  your  cruelty  on  them  fulfil  ? 

And  for  meeting  together  in  Christ's  Name 

Dare  you  make  havock  of  them  for  the  same  ? 

Let  fury  cease,  for  God's  just  wrath  proceeds,  25 

And  gives  to  man  according  to  his  deeds. 

Doth  Corn  so  plentifully  now  abound 

That  upright  men  may  not  work  in  their  ground, 

And  no  place  else  can  you  to  them  aford 

But  prison-holes  because  they  fear  the  Lord?  30 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Think  you  the  Lord  not  angry  is  for  this  ? 
Or  do  you  think  that  ye  his  stroak  shall  miss  ? 
O  consider  and  be  astonished 
That  you  so  wretchedly  are  hardened. 

Let  this  be  writ  for  the  succeeding  age,  35 

To  see  their  folly  and  abhor  their  rage; 
That  they  may  know  the  dreadful  works'  of  God, 
And  say  at  last,  "These  justly  felt  his  rod." 
Blessed  are  they  that  in  their  hearts  have  room 
For  Christ  to  raign,  before  his  anger  come;  40 

For  dreadful  time  of  wrath  is  sure  at  hand. 
O  faithless  ones,  when  will  you  understand  ? 
Now  let  this  be  imprinted  in  your  mind: 
In  time  repent,  whilst  you  a  time  yet  find; 
Fear  the  Lord  God,  cease  from  iniquity,  45 

And  love  Christs  Light;  else  in  your  sins  you  die. 
The  everlasting  Gospel  Saints  declare; 
O  all  mankind,  to  hear  it  now  prepare. 
1662. 


ANONYMOUS 

BACONS  EPITAPH 

MADE   BY  HIS   MAN 

Death,  why  soe  crewill?  what,  no  other  way 

To  manifest  thy  splleene  but  thus  to  slay 

Our  hopes  of  safety,  liberty,  our  all, 

Which  through  thy  tyrany  with  him  must  fall 

To  its  late  Caoss  ?    Had  thy  riged  force  5 

Bin  delt  by  retale  and  not  thus  in  gross, 

Griefe  had  bin  silent.     Now  wee  must  complaine, 

Since  thou  in  him  hast  more  then  thousand  slane, 

Whose  lives  and  safetys  did  so  much  depend 

On  him  there  lif,  with  him  there  lives  must  end.  10 

If 't  be  a  sin  to  thinke  Death  brib'd  can  bee, 
Wee  must  be  guilty,  say  twas  bribery 
Guided  the  fatall  shaft.     Verginias  foes, 
To  whom  for  secrit  crimes  just  vengance  owes 
Disarved  plagues,  dreding  their  just  disart,  15 

Corrupted  Death  by  Parasscellcian  art 


NICHOLAS  NO  YES  37 


Him  to  destroy,  whose  well  tride  curage  such 

There  heartless  harts  nor  arms  nor  strength  could  touch. 

Who  now  must  heale  those  wounds  or  stop  that  blood 
The  Heathen  made  and  drew  into  a  flood  ?  20 

Who  i'st  must  pleade  our  Cause?  nor  Trump  nor  Drum 
Nor  Deputations;  these  alass  are  dumb, 
And  Cannot  speake.     Our  Arms  (though  nere  so  strong) 
Will  want  the  aide  of  his  Commanding  tongue, 
Which  Conquer'd  more  than  Ceaser:  He  orethrew  25 

Onely  the  outward  frame;  this  Could  subdue 
The  ruged  workes  of  nature.     Soules  repleate 
With  dull  Child  could  he  'd  annemate  with  heate 
Drawne  forth  of  reasons  Lymbick.     In  a  word 
Marss  and  Minerva  both  in  him  Concurd  30 

For  arts,  for  arms,  whose  pen  and  sword  alike, 
As  Catos  did,  may  admireation  strike 
In  to  his  foes,  while  they  confess  with  all 
It  was  there  guilt  stil'd  him  a  Criminall. 

Onely  this  differance  doth  from  truth  proceed:  35 

They  in  the  guilt,  he  in  the  name,  must  bleed; 
While  none  shall  dare  his  Obseques  to  sing 
In  disarv'd  measures,  untill  time  shall  bring 
Truth,  Crown'd  with  freedom  and  from  danger  free, 
To  sound  his  praises  to  posterity.  40 

Here  let  him  rest:  while  wee  this  truth  report, 
Hee  's  gon  from  hence  unto  a  higher  Court 
To  pleade  his  Cause,  where  he  by  this  doth  know 
WHETHER  TO  CEASER  HEE  WAS  FRIEND  OR  FOE. 

About  1676.  1814. 


NICHOLAS  NOYES 

FROM 

A  PREFATORY  POEM 

TO  THE   LITTLE   BOOK   ENTITULED   CHRISTIANUS   PER    IGNEM 

The  thoughts  are  like  a  swarm  of  Bees, 
That  fly  both  -when  and  where  they  please; 
Those  little  folks  both  work  and  play 
About  a  thousand  jhw'rs  a  day. 


38  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Yet  in  their  lawless  range  contrive  5 

To  bring  in  Honey  to  their  Hive: 
Who  look  for  method  in  their  march 
At  Honey  making  are  not  arch. 
The  Sally's  of  our  Authors  Soul 

So  fly  about  without  controul:  10 

Sometimes  they  clamber  Heavens  steep, 
And  sometimes  into  Hell  do  peep; 
Good  meditation  both  improve, 
For  both  to  Godly  living  move. 

Methinks  I  see  him  climb  the  Sky,  15 

Viewing  the  Flaming  Fires  on  High, 
And  how  the  will  of  God  they  do, 
That  we  on  Earth  may  do  so  too; 
And  then  to  Hell  he  doth  descend, 

To  know  the  Sinners  woful  end:  20 

He  stands  aloof,  and  hears  the  cry 
Of  Guilty  worms  that  cannot  die 
But  live  in  Lakes  of  flaming  Fire 
That  never!  Never!  shall  Expire; 

Then,  fir'd  with  zeal,  like  Lion  bold  25 

Roars  out  and  tells  what  can't  be  told, 
Warns  men  to  fly  from  Wrath  to  come 
Before  the  Judge  pronounce  their  doom. 
So  snatching  brands  from  Fire  and  Death, 
He  may  his  Fingers  burn  therewith;  30 

Yet  better  so  than  burn  our  Souls 
By  vexing  God  and  pleasing  fools. 
1702.  1702. 

FROM 
A  CONSOLATORY  POEM 

DEDICATED  UNTO  MR.  COTTON  MATHER,  SOON  AFTER  THE  DECEASE  OF  HIS 
EXCELLENT  AND  VERTUOUS  WIFE,  MRS.  ABIGAIL  MATHER.   1703 

Sir,  after  you  have  wip'd  the  eyes 

Of  thousands  in  their  miseries, 

And  oft  condoled  the  heavy  Fates 

Of  those  that  have  surviv'd  their  mates, 

It 's  come  at  length  to  your  own  turn  5 

To  be  one  half  within  an  Urn. 


EBENEZER  COOK  39 


(Your  Christ  would  have  it  so  be  done.) 
Your  other  self  's  torn  off  and  gone. 
Gone!  said  I  ?     Yes,  and  that  's  the  worst: 

Your  Wife  's  but  gone  to  Heaven  first 10 

And  who  would  live  that  God  makes  fit 
To  die  and  then  gives  a  permit  ? 
And  who  would  choose  a  world  of  fears, 
Ready  to  fall  about  their  ears, 

That  might  get  up  above  the  spheres  15 

And  leave  the  region  of  dread  thunder 
To  them  that  love  the  world  that  's  under, 
Where  canker 'd  breasts  with  envy  broil, 
And  smooth  tongues  are  but  dipt  in  oil, 
And  Cain's  club  only  doth  lie  by  20 

For  want  of  opportunity  ? 
Yea,  who  would  live  among  catarrhs, 
Contagions,  pains,  and  strifes,  and  wars. 
That  might  go  up  above  the  stars, 

And  live  in  health  and  peace  and  bliss,  25 

Had  in  that  world  but  wish'd  in  this  ?  .  .  .  . 
This  phoenix  built  her  nest  of  spice, 
Like  to  the  Birds  of  Paradise; 
Which  when  a  fever  set  on  fire, 

Her  soul  took  wing  and  soared  higher,  30 

But  left  choice  ashes  here  behind, 
Christ  will  for  resurrection  find. 
170  J.  1703? 


EBENEZER  COOK 

FROM 

THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

OR   A   VOYAGE   TO   MARYLAND 

I  thought  it  proper  to  provide 

A  Lodging  for  myself  and  Guide, 

So  to  our  Inn  we  march 'd  away, 

Which  at  a  little  distance  lay: 

Where  all  things  were  in  such  Confusion 

I  thought  the  World  at  its  conclusion. 


40  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  Herd  of  Planters  on  the  ground, 

O'er-whelm'd  with  Punch,  dead  drunk,  we  found; 

Others  were  fighting  and  contending; 

Some  burnt  their  Cloaths  to  save  the  mending.          10 

A  few,  whose  Heads  by  frequent  use 

Could  better  bare  the  potent  Juice, 

Gravely  debated  State  Affairs, 

Whilst  I  most  nimbly  trip'd  up  Stairs, 

Leaving  my  Friend  discoursing  oddly  Is 

And  mixing  things  Prophane  and  Godly, 

Just  then  beginning  to  be  Drunk 

As  from  the  Company  I  slunk. 

To  every  Room  and  Nook  I  crept, 

In  hopes  I  might  have  somewhere  slept;  20 

But  all  the  bedding  was  possest 

By  one  or  other  drunken  Guest. 

But  after  looking  long  about 

I  found  an  antient  Corn-loft  out, 

Glad  that  I  might  in  quiet  sleep  2  s 

And  there  my  bones  unfractur'd  keep. 

I  lay'd  me  down,  secure  from  Fray, 

And  soundly  snoar'd  till  break  of  Day; 

When,  waking  fresh,  I  sat  upright, 

And  found  my  Shoes  were  vanish'd  quite —  30 

Hat,  Wig,  and  Stockings,  all  were  fled 

From  this  extended  Indian  Bed. 

Vext  at  the  Loss  of  Goods  and  Chattel, 

I  swore  I  'd  give  the  Rascal  battel 

Who  had  abus'd  me  in  this  sort  35 

And  Merchant  Stranger  made  his  Sport. 

I  furiously  descended  Ladder; 

No  Hare  in  March  was  ever  madder. 

In  vain  I  search'd  for  my  Apparel, 

And  did  with  Oast  and  Servants  Quarrel,  40 

For  one  whose  Mind  did  much  aspire 

To  Mischief  threw  them  in  the  Fire. 

Equipt  with  neither  Hat  nor  Shooe, 

I  did  my  coming  hither  rue, 

And  doubtful  thought  what  I  should  do.  45 

Then,  looking  round,  I  saw  my  Friend 

Lie  naked  on  a  Tables  end, 


EBENEZER  COOK  41 


A  Sight  so  dismal  to  behold 
One  wou'd  have  judg'd  him  dead  and  cold; 
When,  wringing  of  his  bloody  Nose  50 

By  fighting  got,  we  may  suppose, 
I  found  him  not  so  fast  asleep 
Might  give  his  Friends  a  cause  to  weep. 
'Rise,  Oronooko,  rise,"  said  I, 

'And  from  this  Hell  and  Bedlam  flyl"  55 

My  Guide  starts  up,  and  in  amaze 
With  blood-shot  Eyes  did  round  him  gaze. 
At  length,  with  many  a  sigh  and  groan, 
He  went  in  search  of  aged  Rhoan; 
But  Rhoan,  tho'  seldom  us'd  to  faulter,  60 

Had  fairly  this  time  slipt  his  Halter, 
And,  not  content  all  Night  to  stay 
Ty'd  up  from  Fodder,  ran  away: 
After  my  Guide  to  ketch  him  ran, 
And  so  I  lost  both  Horse  and  Man.  65 

Which  Disappointment,  tho'  so  great, 
Did  only  Mirth  and  Jests  create, 
Till  one  more  Civil  than  the  rest, 
In  Conversation  for  the  best, 

Observing  that  for  want  of  Rhoan  70 

I  should  be  left  to  walk  alone, 

Most  readily  did  me  intreat 

To  take  a  Bottle  at  his  Seat, 

A  Favour  at  that  time  so  great 

I  blest  my  kind  propitious  Fate.  75 

And,  finding  soon  a  fresh  supply 

Of  Cloaths  from  Stoar-house  kept  hard  by, 

I  mounted  streight  on  such  a  Steed 

Did  rather  curb  than  whipping  need, 

And,  straining  at  the  usual  rate,  80 

With  spur  of  Punch  which  lay  in  Pate, 

E'er  long  we  lighted  at  the  Gate, 

Where,  in  an  antient  Cedar  House, 

Dwelt  my  new  Friend,  a  Cokerouse; 

Whose  Fabrick,  tho'  't  was  built  of  Wood,  85 

Had  many  Springs  and  Winters  stood, 

When  sturdy  Oaks  and  lofty  Pines 

Were  level'd  with  Musmelion  Vines, 


42  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  Plants  eradicated  were 

By  Hurricanes  into  the  air.  90 

There  with  good  Punch  and  apple  Juice 
We  spent  our  Hours  without  abuse, 
Till  Midnight  in  her  sable  Vest 
Persuaded  Gods  .and  Men  to  rest, 
And  with  a  pleasing  kind  surprize  95 

Indulg'd  soft  Slumbers  to  my  Eyes. 
Fierce  jEthon,  courser  of  the  Sun, 
Had  half  his  Race  exactly  run, 
And  breath'd  on  me  a  fiery  Ray, 

Darting  hot  Beams,  the  following  Day,  100 

When,  snug  in  Blanket  white,  I  lay; 
But  Heat  and  Chinees  rais'd  the  Sinner 
Most  opportunely  to  his  Dinner: 
Wild  Fowl  and  Fish,  delicious  Meats, 
As  good  as  Neptune's  Doxy  eats,  105 

Began  our  Hospitable  Treat; 
Fat  Venson  follow'd  in  the  Rear, 
And  Turkies  wild  Luxurious  Chcar; 
But  what  the  Feast  did  most  commend 
Was  hearty  welcom  from  my  Friend.  nc 

1708. 


ANONYMOUS 

SONG  OF  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT 

Of  worthy  Captain  LOVEWELL  I  purpose  now  to  sing, 
How  valiantly  he  served  his  country  and  his  King: 
He  and  his  valiant  soldiers  did  range  the  woods  full  wide, 
And  hardships  they  endured  to  quell  the  Indian's  pride. 

'T  was  nigh  unto  Pigwacket,  on  the  eighth  day  of  May,  5 

They  spied  a  rebel  Indian  soon  after  break  of  day; 
He  on  a  bank  was  walking,  upon  a  neck  of  land 
Which  leads  into  a  pond,  as  we  're  made  to  understand. 

Our  men  resolv'd  to  have  him,  and  travell'd  two  miles  round 
Until  they  met  the  Indian,  who  boldly  stood  his  ground.  10 

Then  speaks  up  Captain  LOVEWELL:  "Take  you  good  heed,"  says  he; 
'This  rogue  is  to  decoy  us,  I  very  plainly  see. 


ANONYMOUS  43 


"The  Indians  lie  in  ambush,  in  some  place  nigh  at  hand, 
In  order  to  surround  us  upon  this  neck  of  land; 

Therefore  we  '11  march  in  order,  and  each  man  leave  his  pack,  15 

That  we  may  briskly  fight  them  when  they  make  their  attack." 

They  came  unto  this  Indian,  who  did  them  thus  defy: 

As  soon  as  they  came  nigh  him,  two  guns  he  did  let  fly, 

Which  wounded  Captain  LOVE  WELL  and  likewise  one  man  more; 

But  when  this  rogue  was  running,  they  laid  him  in  his  gore.  20 

Then,  having  scalp'd  the  Indian,  they  went  back  to  the  spot 
Where  they  had  laid  their  packs  down,  but  there  they  found  them  not, 
For  the  Indians,  having  spy'd  them  when  they  them  down  did  lay, 
Did  seize  them  for  their  plunder  and  carry  them  away. 

These  rebels  lay  iL  ambush  this  very  place  hard  by,  25 

So  that  an  English  soldier  did  one  of  them  espy 
And  cried  out,  "Here  's  an  Indian!"    With  that  they  started  out 
As  fiercely  as  old  lions,  and  hideously  did  shout. 

With  that  our  valiant  English  all  gave  a  loud  huzza, 

To  shew  the  rebel  Indians  they  fear'd  them  not  a  straw.  30 

So  now  the  fight  began;  and  as  fiercely  as  could  be 

The  Indians  ran  up  to  them,  but  soon  were  forced  to  flee. 

Then  spake  up  Captain  LOVEWELL  when  first  the  fight  began, 
"Fight  on,  my  valiant  heroes!  you  see  they  fall  like  rain!" 
For,  as  we  are  inform'd,  the  Indians  were  so  thick  35 

A  man  could  scarcely  fire  a  gun  and  not  some  of  them  hit. 

Then  did  the  rebels  try  their  best  our  soldiers  to  surround, 

But  they  could  not  accomplish  it,  because  there  was  a  pond 

To  which  our  men  retreated  and  covered  all  the  rear: 

The  rogues  were  forc'd  to  flee  them,  altho'  they  skulked  for  fear.       40 

Two  logs  there  were  behind  them  that  close  together  lay : 
Without  being  discovered  they  could  not  get  away; 
Therefore  our  valiant  English  they  travell'd  in  a  row, 
And  at  a  handsome  distance,  as  they  were  wont  to  go. 

T  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  first  the  fight  begun,  45 

And  fiercely  did  continue  until  the  setting  sun, 

Excepting  that  the  Indians,  some  hours  before  't  was  night, 

Drew  off  into  the  bushes  and  ceas'd  a  while  to  fight. 


44  AMERICAN  POEMS 


But  soon  again  returned  in  fierce  and  furious  mood, 

Shouting  as  in  the  morning,  but  yet  not  half  so  loud;  50 

For,  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they  fell 

Scarce  twenty  of  their  number  at  night  did  get  home  well; 

And  that  our  valiant  English  till  midnight  there  did  stay, 

To  see  whether  the  rebels  would  have  another  fray; 

But,  they  no  more  returning,  they  made  off  towards  their  home,       55 

And  brought  away  their  wounded  as  far  as  they  could  come. 

Of  all  our  valiant  English  there  were  but  thirty-four, 

And  of  the  rebel  Indians  there  were  about  fourscore: 

And  sixteen  of  our  English  did  safely  home  return; 

The  rest  were  kill'd  and  wounded,  for  which  we  all  must  mourn.       60 

Our  worthy  Captain  LOVE  WELL  among  them  there  did  die; 
They  killed  Lieut.  ROBBINS,  and  wounded  good  young  FRYE, 
Who  was  our  English  Chaplain:  he  many  Indians  slew, 
And  some  of  them  he  scalp'd  when  bullets  round  him  flew. 

Young  FULLAM,  too,  I'll  mention,  because  he  fought  so  well —  65 

Endeavouring  to  save  a  man,  a  sacrifice  he  fell. 

But  yet  our  valiant  Englishmen  in  fight  were  ne'er  dismay 'd, 

But  still  they  kept  their  motion,  and  WYMAN  's  captain  made, 

Who  shot  the  old  chief  PAUGUS,  which  did  the  foe  defeat; 
Then  set  his  men  in  order,  and  brought  off  the  retreat;  70 

And,  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  the  way, 
They  safe  arriv'd  at  Dunstable  the  thirteenth  day  of  May. 
About  1725.  1824. 

MATHER  BYLES 

FROM 

AN  ELEGY  ADDRESS'D  TO  HIS  EXCELLENCY 
GOVERNOUR  BELCHER 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  BROTHER-IN-LAW,  THE  HONOURABLE 
DANIEL  OLIVER,  ESQ. 

Mindless  of  Grandieur,  from  the  Crowd  he  fled, 
Sought  green  Retirements  and  the  silent  Shade. 
Ye  how'ry  Trees  which  round  his  Mansion  bloom, 
Oft  ye  conceal'd  him  in  your  hallow'd  Gloom : 


JOSEPH  GREEN  45 


Oft  he  en  joy 'd,  in  your  sublime  Abode,  5 

His  Books,  his  Innocence,  his  Friend,  his  GOD. 

Now  sad,  I  wander  o'er  the  lofty  Seat 

And  trace  the  Mazes  of  the  soft  Retreat, 

View  the  fair  Prospects,  round  the  Gardens  rove, 

Bend  up  the  Hill  and  search  the  lonely  Grove.  10 

But  ah,  no  more  his  Voice  salutes  my  Ear, 

Nor  in  his  Hands  the  blushing  Fruits  appear; 

Yet  is  his  Image  in  each  Scene  convey'd, 

And  busy  Fancy  forms  his  gliding  Shade: 

I  seem  to  meet  him  in  the  flow'ry  Walks,  15 

And  thro'  the  Boughs  his  whispering  Spirit  talks; 

Eager  I  call,  the  dear  Delusion  flies, 

Grief  seals  my  Lips  and  Tears  suffuse  my  Eyes. 

O  far,  far  off,  above  the  Ken  of  these, 

The  rising  Mountain  and  th'  aspiring  Trees,  ac 

In  the  gay  Bow'rs  that  crown  th'  Eternal  Hills 

His  spotless  Soul  in  deathless  Pleasure  dwells; 

Tuneful  replies  while  Choral  Seraphs  play, 

And  in  bright  Visions  smiles  the  Hours  away. 

He  visits  now  no  more  this  dull  Abode,  25 

But  talks  with  Angels,  and  beholds  his  GOD. 

1732- 


JOSEPH  GREEN 

THE  POET'S  LAMENTATION  FOR  THE  LOSS 
OF  HIS  CAT 

WHICH   HE   USED   TO   CALL   HIS   MUSE 

Oppress'd  with  grief,  in  heavy  strains  I  mourn 

The  partner  of  my  studies  from  me  torn. 

How  shall  I  sing  ?  what  numbers  shall  I  chuse  ? 

For  in  my  fav'rite  cat  I  've  lost  my  muse. 

No  more  I  feel  my  mind  with  raptures  fir'd,  5 

I  want  those  airs  that  Puss  so  oft  inspir'cl : 

No  crowding  thoughts  my  ready  fancy  fill, 

Nor  words  run  fluent  from  my  easy  quill. 

Yet  shall  my  verse  deplore  her  cruel  fate, 

And  celebrate  the  virtues  of  my  cat 10 


46  AMERICAN  POEMS 


She  never  thirsted  for  the  chickens'  blood; 
Her  teeth  she  only  used  to  chew  her  food. 
Harmless  as  satites  which  her  mastei  writes, 
A  foe  to  scratching  and  unused  to  bites, 
She  in  the  study  was  my  constant  mate;  15 

There  we  together  many  evenings  sat. 
Whene'er  I  felt  my  tow'ring  fancy  fail, 
I  stroked  her  head,  her  ears,  her  back,  and  tail, 
And,  as  I  stroked,  improv'd  my  dying  song 
From  the  sweet  notes  of  her  melodious  tongue:  20 

Her  purrs  and  mews  so  evenly  kept  time, 
She  purr'd  in  metre  and  she  mew'd  in  rhyme. 
But  when  my  dulness  has  too  stubborn  prov'd, 
Nor  could  by  Puss's  music  be  remov'd, 

Oft  to  the  well-known  volumes  have  I  gone,  25 

And  stole  a  line  from  Pope  or  Addison. 

Ofttimes  when  lost  amidst  poetic  heat, 
She,  leaping  on  my  knee,  has  took  her  seat, 
There  saw  the  throes  that  rock'd  my  lab'ring  brain, 
And  lick'd  and  claw'd  me  to  myself  again.  30 

Then,  friends,  indulge  my  grief  and  let  me  mourn. 
My  cat  is  gone,  ah,  never  to  return! 
Now  in  my  study,  all  the  tedious  night, 
Alone  I  sit  and  unassisted  write; 

Look  often  round  (O  greatest  cause  of  pain!),  35 

And  view  the  num'rous  labors  of  my  brain; 
Those  quires  of  words  array'd  in  pompous  rhyme, 
Which  braved  the  jaws  of  all-devouring  time, 
Now  undefended  and  unwatch'd  by  cats, 
Are  doom'd  a  victim  to  the  teeth  of  rats.  40 

1733- 


ANONYMOUS 

COMMENCEMENT 

I  sing  the  day,  bright  with  peculiar  charms, 
Whose  rising  radiance  ev'ry  bosom  warms; 
The  day  when  Cambridge  empties  all  the  towns, 
And  youths  commencing  take  their  laurel  crowiis; 
When  smiling  joys  and  gay  delights  appear, 


ANONYMOUS  47 


And  shine  distinguish'd  in  the  rolling  year. 

While  the  glad  theme  I  labour  to  rehearse 

In  flowing  numbers  and  melodious  verse, 

Descend,  immortal  nine,  my  soul  inspire, 

Amid  my  bosom  lavish  all  your  fire,  10 

While  smiling  Phcebus  owns  the  heavenly  layes 

And  shades  the  poet  with  surrounding  bayes! 

But  chief,  ye  blooming  nymphs  of  heavenly  frame 

Who  make  the  day  with  double  glory  flame, 

In  whose  fair  persons  art  and  nature  vie,  15 

On  the  young  muse  cast  an  auspicious  eye: 

Secure  of  fame  then  shall  the  goddess  sing, 

And  rise  triumphant  with  a  tow'ring  wing; 

Her  tuneful  notes  wide-spreading  all  around, 

The  hills  shall  echo  and  the  vales  resound.  20 

Soon  as  the  morn,  in  crimson  robes  array 'd, 
With  chearful  beams  dispels  the  flying  shade, 
While  fragrant  odours  waft  the  air  along, 
And  birds  melodious  chant  their  heavenly  song, 
And  all  the  waste  of  heav'n,  with  glory  spread,  25 

Wakes  up  the  world  in  sleep's  embraces  dead, 
Then  those  whose  dreams  were  on  th '  approaching  day 
Prepare  in  splendid  garbs  to  make  their  way 
To  that  admir'd  solemnity  whose  date 

Tho'  late  begun  will  last  as  long  as  fate.  34 

And  now  the  sprightly  Fair  approach  the  glass 
To  heighten  every  feature  of  the  face: 
They  view  the  roses  flush  their  glowing  cheeks, 
The  snowy  lillies  twining  round  their  necks; 
Their  rustling  manteaus,  huddled  on  in  haste,  35 

They  clasp  with  shining  girdles  round  their  waist. 
Nor  less  the  speed  and  care  of  every  beau 
To  shine  in  dress  and  swell  the  solemn  show. 

Thus  clad,  in  careless  order  mixt  by  chance, 
In  haste  they  both  along  the  streets  advance,  40 

'Till  near  the  brink  of  Charles's  beauteous  stream 
They  stop,  and  think  the  lingring  boat  to  blame. 
Soon  as  the  empty  skiff  salutes  the  shore 
In  with  impetuous  haste  they  clustering  pour; 
The  men  the  head,  the  stern  the  ladies  grace,  45 

And  neighing  horses  fill  the  middle  space. 


48  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Sunk  deep,  the  boat  floats  slow  the  waves  along, 

And  scarce  contains  the  thickly  crowded  throng; 

A  gen'ral  horror  seizes  on  the  fair, 

While  white-look'd  cowards  only  not  despair;  50 

'Till,  row'd  with  care,  they  reach  th'  opposing  side, 

Leap  on  the  shore  and  leave  the  threat'ning  tide, 

While  to  receive  the  pay  the  boat-man  stands, 

And  chinking  pennys  jingle  in  his  hands. 

Eager  the  sparks  assault  the  waiting  cars,  55 

Fops  meet  with  fops  and  clash  in  civil  wars: 
Off  fly  the  wigs  as  mount  their  kicking  heels; 
The  rudely  bouncing  head  with  anguish  swells; 
A  crimson  torrent  gushes  from  the  nose 

Adown  the  cheeks,  and  wanders  o'er  the  cloaths.  60 

Vaunting,  the  victor's  strait  the  chariots  leap, 
While  the  poor  batter'd  beau's  for  madness  weep. 
Now  in  calashes  shine  the  blooming  maids, 
Bright'ning  the  day  which  blazes  o'er  their  heads; 
The  seats  with  nimble  steps  they  swift  ascend,  65 

And  moving  on  the  crowd  their  waste  of  beauties  spend : 
So,  bearing  thro'  the  boundless  breadth  of  heav'n, 
The  twinkling  lamps  of  light  are  graceful  driv'n, 
While  on  the  world  they  shed  their  glorious  rays, 
And  set  the  face  of  nature  in  a  blaze.  70 

Now  smoak  the  burning  wheels  along  the  ground, 
While  rapid  hoofs  of  flying  steeds  resound; 
The  drivers,  by  no  vulgar  flame  inspir'd, 
But  with  the  sparks  of  love  and  glory  fir'd, 
With  furious  swiftness  sweep  along  the  way,  7^ 

And  from  the  foremost  chariot  snatch  the  day. 
So  at  olympick  games  when  heros  strove 
In  rapid  cars  to  gain  the  goal  of  love, 
If  on  her  fav'rite  youth  the  goddess  shone 
He  left  his  rival  and  the  winds  out-run.  80 

And  now  thy  town,  O  Cambridge,  strikes  the  sight 
Of  the  beholders  with  confus'd  delight; 
Thy  green  campaigns  wide  open  to  the  view, 
And  buildings  where  bright  youth  their  fame  pursue. 
Blest  village,  on  whose  plains  united  glows  85 

A  vast,  confus'd  magnificence  of  shows, 
Where  num'rous  crowds  of  different  colours  blend, 


ANONYMOUS  49 


Thick  as  the  trees  which  from  the  hills  ascend, 
Or  as  the  grass  which  shoots  in  verdant  spires 
Or  stars  which  dart  thro'  natures  realms  their  fires.  90 

How  am  I  fir'd  with  a  profuse  delight 
When  round  the  yard  I  roll  my  ravish 'd  sight  I 
From  the  high  casements  how  the  ladies  show, 
And  scatter  glory  on  the  crowds  below  1 

From  sash  to  sash  the  lovely  lightening  plays,  95 

And  blends  their  beauties  in  a  radiant  blaze. 
So  when  the  noon  of  night  the  earth  invades 
And  o'er  the  landskip  spreads  her  silent  shades, 
In  heavens  high  vault  the  twinkling  stars  appear 
And  with  gay  glory's  guild  the  gleemy  sphere;  100 

From  their  bright  orbs  a  flame  of  splendors  flows, 
And  all  around  th'  enlighten'd  ether  glows. 

Soon  as  huge  heaps  have  delug'd  all  the  plains 
Of  tawny  damsels  mixt  with  simple  swains, 
Gay  city  beau's,  grave  matrons  and  coquats,  105 

Bully's  and  cully's,  clergymen  and  wits, 
The  thing  which  first  the  num'rous  crowd  employs 
Is  by  a  breakfast  to  begin  their  joys, 
While  wine,  which  blushes  in  a  chrystal  glass, 
Streams  down  in  floods  and  paints  their  glowing  face.  no 

And  now  the  time  approaches  when  the  bell 
With  dull  continuance  tolls  a  solemn  knell. 
Numbers  of  blooming  youth  in  black  array 
Adorn  the  yard  and  gladden  all  the  day; 

In  two  strait  lines  they  instantly  divide,  115 

While  each  beholds  his  partner  on  th'  opposing  side: 
Then  slow,  majestick,  walks  the  learned  head; 
The  senate  follow  with  a  solemn  tread; 
Next  levi's  tribe  in  reverend  order  move, 

Whilst  the  uniting  youth  the  show  improve.  120 

They  glow  in  long  procession  till  they  come 
Near  to  the  portals  of  the  sacred  dome; 
Then  on  a  sudden  open  fly  the  doors, 
The  leader  enters,  then  the  croud  thick  pours. 
The  temple  in  a  moment  feels  its  freight  125 

And  cracks  beneath  its  vast  unwieldy  weight: 
So  when  the  threatning  Ocean  roars  around 
A  place  encompass'd  with  a  lofty  mound, 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


If  some  weak  part  admits  the  raging  waves 

It  flows  resistless  and  the  city  laves,  130 

Till  underneath  the  waters  ly  the  tow'rs 

Which  menac'd  with  their  height  the  heav'nly  pow'rs. 

The  work  begun  with  pray'r,  with  modest  pace 
A  youth  advancing  mounts  the  desk  with  grace, 
To  all  the  audience  sweeps  a  circling  bow,  135 

Then  from  his  lips  ten  thousand  graces  flow. 
The  next  that  comes  a  learned  thesis  reads, 
The  question  states,  and  then  a  war  succeeds: 
Loud  major,  minor,  and  the  consequence 

Amuse  the  crowd,  wide-gaping  at  their  sence;  140 

Who  speaks  the  loudest  is  with  them  the  best, 
And  impudence  for  learning  is  confest. 

The  battle  o'er,  the  sable  youth  descend, 
And  to  the  awful  chief  their  footsteps  bend: 
With  a  small  book  the  laurel  wreath  he  gives,  145 

Join'd  with  a  pow'r  to  use  it  all  their  lives; 
Obsequious  they  return  what  they  receive, 
With  decent  rev'rence  they  his  presence  leave. 
Dismiss'd,  they  strait  repeat  their  backward  way, 
And  with  white  napkins  grace  the  sumptuous  day.  150 

Now  plates  unnumber'd  on  the  tables  shine, 
And  dishes  fill'd  invite  the  guests  to  dine. 
The  grace  perform'd,  each  as  it  suits  him  best 
Divides  the  sav'ry  honours  of  the  feast; 

The  glasses  with  bright  sparkling  wines  abound,  155 

And  flowing  bowls  repeat  the  jolly  round. 
Thanks  said,  the  multitude  unite  their  voice 
In  sweetly  mingled  and  melodious  noise: 
The  warbling  musick  floats  along  the  air, 

And  softly  winds  the  mazes  of  the  ear;  160 

Ravish'd,  the  crowd  promiscuously  retires, 
And  each  pursues  the  pleasure  he  admires. 

Behold,  my  muse,  far  distant  on  the  plains, 
Amidst  a  wrestling  ring,  two  jolly  swains: 
Eager  for  fame,  they  tug  and  haul  for  blood,  165 

One  nam'd  Jack  Luby,  t'  other  Robin  Clod; 
Panting  they  strain,  and  labouring  hard  they  sweat, 
Mix  legs,  kick  shins,  tear  cloaths,  and  ply  their  feet; 
Now  nimbly  trip,  now  stiffly  stand  their  ground, 
And  now  they  twirle  around,  around,  around;  170 


JOHN  MAYLEM 


Till,  overcome  by  greater  art  or  strength, 

Jack  Luby  lays  along  his  lubber  length. 
"A  fall,  a  fall!"  the  loud  spectators  cry; 
"A  fall,  a  falll"  the  echoing  hills  reply. 

O'er  yonder  field  in  wild  confusion  runs  175 

A  clam'rous  troop  of  Ajfric's  sable  sons: 

Behind,  the  victors  shout  with  barbarous  roar, 

The  vanquish'd  fly  with  hideous  yells  before; 

The  gloomy  squadron  thro'  the  valley  speeds, 

Whilst  clatt'ring  cudgels  battle  o'er  their  heads.  180 

Again  to  church  the  learned  tribe  repair, 

Where  syllogisms  battle  in  the  air; 

And  then  the  elder  youth  their  second  laurels  wear. 

Hail,  happy  laurets,  who  our  hopes  inspire, 

And  set  our  ardent  wishes  all  on  fire:  185 

By  you  the  pulpit  and  the  bar  will  shine, 

In  future  annals,  while  the  ravish 'd  nine 

Will  in  your  bosom  breathe  caelestial  flames, 

And  stamp  Eternity  upon  your  names. 

Accept  my  infant  muse,  whose  feeble  wings  190 

Can  scarce  sustain  her  flight  while  you  she  sings; 

With  candour  view  my  rude  unfinish'd  praise, 

And  see  my  Ivy  twist  around  your  bayes: 

So  Phideas,  by  immortal  Jove  inspir'd, 

His  statue  carv'd,  by  all  mankind  admir'd;  195 

Nor  thus  content,  by  his  approving  nod 

He  cut  himself  upon  the  shining  god, 

That,  shaded  by  the  umbrage  of  his  name, 

Eternal  honours  might  attend  his  fame. 

1744. 


JOHN  MAYLEM 

FROM 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  LOUISBURG 

See  AMHERST  now  his  warlike  Squadrons  range, 
Portending  dreadful  Death  and  loud  Revenge; 
Forms  his  fierce  Legions  in  embattled  Ranks, 
With  Van  and  Rear-Guard  and  important  Flanks; 
Then  at  their  Head,  heroic  and  serene, 


52  AMERICAN  POEMS 


March'd  like  young  Scipio  to  a  bloodier  Scene, 
To  a  high  Battery,  or  winding  Length, 
Of  double  Embrasures,  of  double  Strength, 
Whose  mighty  Walls  the  Enemy  immure, 
And  the  long  Trenches  aid  their  great  Secure;  10 

Now  o'er  the  Heath  his  brave  Myrmidons  leads, 
While  the  shrill  Music  sounds  to  noble  Deeds, 
And  the  warm  Sun-beams  on  their  Fire-locks  play, 
Strike  off  in  Spires  and  aid  the  blaze  of  Day. 
A  gen'ral  halt  ensues,  nor  yet  the  Van  15 

Had  the  fierce  Onset  of  Attack  began; 
Six  Deep  the  Front  a  martial  Grace  disclose, 
That  dar'd  the  Thunder  of  their  Gallic  Foes. 
But  lo,  while  ready  for  the  Charge  they  stood, 
Death,  Blunderbuss,  Artillery,  and  Blood,  20 

Blue  Smoke  and  purple  Flame  around  appear, 
And  the  hot  Bullets  hail  from  Front  to  Rear. 
Tremendous  Fate  by  Turns  incessant  flies, 
While  the  black  Sulphur  cloud  the  azure  Skies; 
And  ghastly  Savages,  with  fearful  yell,  25 

Invoke  their  Kindred  of  profoundest  Hell, 
Whose  hoarse  shrill  powaws  valiant  AMHERST  scorns, 
And  roars  loud  Thunder  from  his  dread  Cohorns. 
Now  dire  Confusions  on  Confusions  rise, 

And  the  deep  Conflict  aids  the  mighty  Noise.  30 

From  Hills  of  Smoke  see  Spire  ascend  on  Spire, 
And  AMHERST  there  invelop'd  all  in  Fire; 
With  his  drawn  Sabre,  from  a  livid  Cloud 
With  teeming  Death  emerging  like  a  God; 
Ten  thousand  Beams  spire  from  the  flaming  Steel,  35 

And  Gallia's  Sons  his  weighty  Prowess  feel. 
Now  the  vast  Tumult  wakes  the  drowsy  Gods, 
Who  all  look  down  to  see  the  mighty  odds: 
When  AMHERST  there,  like  Peleus  mighty  Son, 
Dreadful  in  Arms  and  Tyrian  Scarlet  shone,  40 

Engaging  here,  in  Martial  Order  stood 
Fierce  as  Alcides  or  the  Scythian  God; 
Till  thundring  Mars  no  more  the  Sight  could  bear, 
Turn'd  pale  with  Envy  and  let  drop  his  Spear, 
And  Fame,  all  flaming  from  the  imperial  Car,  45 

Hail'd  him  sole  Rival  of  the  God  of  War. 
1758-  1758. 


THOMAS  GODFREY  53 


THOMAS  GODFREY 

THE  INVITATION 

Damon.     Haste,  Sylvia,  haste,  my  charming  maid! 

Let  's  leave  these  fashionable  toys: 
Let 's  seek  the  shelter  of  some  shade, 

And  revel  in  ne'er  fading  joys. 
See,  Spring  in  liv'ry  gay  appears,  S 

And  winter's  chilly  blasts  are  fled; 
Each  grove  its  leafy  honours  rears, 

And  meads  their  lovely  verdure  spread. 

Sylvia.     Yes,  Damon,  glad  I  '11  quit  the  town; 

Its  gaieties  now  languid  seem :  10 

Then  sweets  to  luxury  unknown 

We  '11  taste,  and  sip  th'  untainted  stream. 
In  Summer's  sultry  noon-tide  heat 

I  '11  lead  thee  to  the  shady  grove, 
There  hush  thy  cares,  or  pleas'd  repeat  15 

Those  vows  that  won  my  soul  to  love. 

Damon.     When  o'er  the  mountain  peeps  the  dawn, 

And  round  her  ruddy  beauties  play, 
I  '11  wake  my  love  to  view  the  lawn, 

Or  hear  the  warblers  hail  the  day.  20 

But  without  thee  the  rising  morn 

In  vain  awakes  the  cooling  breeze; 
In  vain  does  nature's  face  adorn — 

Without  my  Sylvia  nought  can  please. 

Sylvia.     At  night,  when  universal  gloom  25 

Hides  the  bright  prospects  from  our  view, 
When  the  gay  groves  give  up  their  bloom 

And  verdant  meads  their  lovely  hue, 
Tho'  fleeting  spectres  round  me  move, 

When  in  thy  circling  arms  I  'm  prest,  30 

I  '11  hush  my  rising  fears  with  love, 

And  sink  in  slumber  on  thy  Breast. 

Damon.    The  new-blown  rose,  whilst  on  its  leaves 
Yet  the  bright  scented  dew-drop 's  found, 

Pleas'd  on  thy  bosom  whilst  it  heaves,  35 

Shall  shake  its  heav'nly  fragrance  round. 


54  AMERICAN  POEMS 

Then  mingled  sweets  the  sense  shall  raise, 
Then  mingled  beauties  catch  the  eye: 

What  pleasure  on  such  charms  to  gaze, 

What  rapture  'mid  such  sweets  to  lie!  40 

Sylvia.     How  sweet  thy  words!     But,  Damon,  cease, 

Nor  strive  to  fix  me  ever  here; 
Too  well  you  know  these  accents  please, 

That  oft  have  fill'd  my  ravish 'd  ear. 
Come,  lead  me  to  these  promis'd  joys  45 

That  dwelt  so  lately  on  thy  tongue; 
Direct  me  by  thy  well-known  voice, 

And  calm  my  transports  with  thy  song! 

1758.  1758- 

TROM 

THE  COURT  OF  FANCY 

'T  was  sultry  noon;  impatient  of  the  heat 

I  sought  the  covert  of  a  close  retreat: 

Soft  by  a  bubbling  fountain  was  I  laid, 

And  o'er  my  head  the  spreading  branches  play'd, 

When  gentle  slumber  stole  upon  my  eyes,  5 

And  busy  Fiction  bid  this  vision  rise. 

Methought  I,  pensive,  unattended,  stood, 
Wrapt  in  the  horrors  of  a  desert  wood: 
Old  Night  and  Silence  spread  their  sway  around, 
And  not  a  breeze  disturb 'd  the  dread  profound.  10 

To  break  the  wild  and  gain  the  neighb'ring  plain 
Oft  I  essay 'd,  and  oft  essay 'd  in  vain; 
Still  in  intricate  mazes  round  I  run, 
And  ever  ended  where  I  first  begun. 

While  thus  I  lab'ring  strove  t'  explore  my  way,  15 

Bright  on  my  sense  broke  unexpected  Day; 
Retiring  Night  in  haste  withdrew  her  shade, 
And  sudden  morn  shone  thro'  the  op'ning  glade. 
No  more  the  scene  a  desert  wild  appear'd; 
A  smiling  grove  its  vernal  honors  rear'd,  20 

While  sweetness  on  the  balmy  breezes  hung, 
And  all  around  a  joyful  Mattin  rung: 
Soft  was  the  strain  as  Zephyr  in  the  grove, 


THOMAS  GODFREY  55 


Or  purling  streams  that  thro'  the  meadows  rove; 

Now  wild  in  air  the  varying  strain  is  tost,  25 

In  distant  echoes  then  the  sound  is  lost, 

Again  reviv'd,  and  lo  the  willing  trees 

Rise  to  the  pow'rful  numbers  by  degrees. 

Trees  now  no  more,  robb'd  of  their  verdant  bloom, 

They  shine  supporters  of  a  spacious  dome;  30 

The  wood  to  bright  transparent  crystal  chang'd, 

High  fluted  columns  rise  in  order  rang'd. 

So  to  the  magic  of  Amphion's  lyre 

Stones  motion  found,  and  Thebes  was  seen  t'  aspire; 

The  nodding  forests  'rose  with  the  soft  sound,  35 

And  gilded  turrets  glitter'd  all  around: 

Each  wond'ring  God  bent  from  his  heav'nly  seal 

To  view  what  pow'rful  music  cou'd  compleat. 

High  on  a  mountain  was  the  pile  disclos'd, 
And  spreading  limes  th'  ascending  walks  compos'd;  43 

While  far  below  the  waving  woods  declin'd, 
Their  verdant  tops  bow'd  with  the  gentle  wind. 
Bright  varying  Novelty  produc'd  delight, 
And  Majesty  and  Beauty  charm'd  the  sight. 
Such  are  the  scenes  which  Poets  sweetly  sing,  45 

By  Fancy  taught  to  strike  the  trembling  string. 
Here  Fancy's  fane,  near  to  the  blest  abode 
Of  all  her  kindred  Gods,  superior  stood. 
Dome  upon  dome  it  sparkl'd  from  on  high. 
Its  lofty  top  lost  in  the  azure  sky.  50 

By  Fiction's  hand  th'  amazing  pile  was  rear'd; 
In  ev'ry  part  stupendous  skill  appear'd: 
In  beautiful  disorder,  yet  compleat, 
The  structure  shone  irregular  and  great; 
The  noble  frontispiece  of  antique  mold  55 

Glitter'd  with  gems  and  blaz'd  with  burnish'd  gold. 

Now  thro'  the  sounding  vaults,  self-op'ning,  rung 
The  massy  gates  on  golden  hinges  hung; 
All  the  bright  structure  was  disclos'd  to  view, 
Magnificent  with  beauty  ever  new:  6c 

Trembling  I  stood  absorb'd  in  dread  surprize, 
And  sudden  glory  dim'd  my  aching  eyes. 
Unnumber'd  Pillars  all  around  were  plac'd, 
Their  capitals  with  artful  sculpture  grac'd. 


56  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Wide  round  the  roof  a  fictious  sky  was  rais'd;  65 

A  glorious  Sun  in  the  meridian  blaz'd, 

On  the  rich  columns  play'd  his  dazzling  ray, 

And  all  around  diffus'd  immortal  day; 

A  shining  Phcenix  on  th'  effusive  rays 

Fix'd  his  aspiring  eye  with  steady  gaze.  70 

Beneath  appear'd  a  chequer'd  pavement,  bright 

With  sparkling  Jaspanyx  and  Chrysolite. 

'Round,  by  creating  Fiction's  hand  renew'd, 

Gay  visionary  scenes  in  order  stood; 

Th'  obedient  figures  at  her  touch  disclos'd,  75 

And  various  tales  the  glowing  walls  compos'd. 

1762. 

FROM 

THE  PRINCE  OF  PARTHIA,  A  TRAGEDY 

ACT   I.      SCENE   I 

The  Temple  of  the  Sun.     Gotarzes  and  Phraates 

Gotarzes.     He  comes,  Arsaces  comes!  my  gallant  Brother, 
Like  shining  Mars  in  all  the  pomp  of  conquest, 
Triumphant  enters  now  our  joyful  gates. 
Bright  Victory  waits  on  his  glitt'ring  car 
And  shows  her  fav'rite  to  the  wond'ring  croud,  5 

While  Fame,  exulting,  sounds  the  happy  name 
To  realms  remote,  and  bids  the  world  admire. 
Oh,  't  is  a  glorious  day!  let  none  presume 
T'  indulge  the  tear  or  wear  the  gloom  of  sorrow. 
This  day  shall  shine  in  Ages  yet  to  come,  10 

And  grace  the  PARTHIAN  story. 

Phraates.  Glad  Ctes'phon 

Pours  forth  her  numbers  like  a  rolling  deluge 
To  meet  the  blooming  Hero:  all  the  ways 
On  either  side  as  far  as  sight  can  stretch 
Are  lin'd  with  crouds,  and  on  the  lofty  walls  15 

Innumerable  multitudes  are  rang'd. 
On  ev'ry  countenance  impatience  sate 
With  roving  eye,  before  the  train  appear'd; 
But  when  they  saw  the  Darling  of  the  Fates, 
They  rent  the  air  with  loud  repeated  shouts.  *o 

The  Mother  show'd  him  to  her  infant  son, 


THOMAS  GODFREY  57 


And  taught  his  lisping  tongue  to  name  Arsaces. 

E'en  aged  Sires,  whose  sounds  are  scarcely  heard, 

By  feeble  strength  supported  tost  their  caps, 

And  gave  their  murmur  to  the  gen'ral  voice.  25 

Gotarzes.    The  spacious  streets  which  lead  up  to  the  Temple 
Are  strew'd  with  flow'rs:  each  with  frantic  joy 
His  garland  forms  and  throws  it  in  the  way. 
What  pleasure,  Phraales,  must  swell  his  bosom, 
To  see  the  prostrate  nation  all  around  him  30 

And  know  he  's  made  them  happy!  to  hear  them 
Tease  the  Gods  to  show'r  their  blessings  on  him! 
Happy  Arsaces,  fain  I  'd  imitate 
Thy  matchless  worth,  and  be  a  shining  joy. 

Phraates.    Hark,  what  a  shout  was  that  which  pierc'd  the 
skies!  35 

It  seem'd  as  tho'  all  Nature's  beings  join'd 
To  hail  thy  glorious  Brother. 

Gotarzes.  Happy  Parthial 

Now  proud  Arabia  dreads  her  destin'd  chains, 
While  shame  and  rout  disperses  all  her  sons. 
Barzaphernes  pursues  the  fugitives,  40 

The  few  whom  fav'ring  Night  redeem'd  from  slaughter: 
Swiftly  they  fled,  for  fear  had  wing'd  their  speed, 
And  made  them  bless  the  shade  which  saf'ty  gave. 

Phraates.      What  a  bright  hope  is  ours,  when  those  dread 

pow'rs 

Who  rule  yon  heav'n  and  guide  the  mov'ments  here  45 

Shall  call  your  royal  Father  to  their  joys. 
In  blest  Arsaces  ev'ry  virtue  meets: 
He  's  gen'rous,  brave,  and  wise,  and  good, 
Has  skill  to  act,  and  noble  fortitude 

To  face  bold  danger,  in  the  battle  firm,  50 

And  dauntless  as  a  Lion  fronts  his  foe; 
Yet  is  he  sway'd  by  ev'ry  tender  passion, 
Forgiving  mercy,  gentleness,  and  love, 
Which  speak  the  Hero  friend  of  humankind. 

Gotarzes.     And  let  me  speak,  for  't  is  to  him  I  owe  55 

That  here  I  stand  and  breath  the  common  air, 
And  't  is  my  pride  to  tell  it  to  the  world. 
One  luckless  day,  as  in  the  eager  chace 
My  Courser  wildly  bore  me  from  the  rest, 


58  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  monst'rous  Leopard  from  a  bosky  fen  60 

Rush'd  forth,  and  foaming  lash'd  the  ground, 

And  fiercely  ey'd  me  as  his  destin'd  quarry. 

My  jav'lin  swift  I  threw,  but  o'er  his  head 

It  erring  pass'd  and  harmless  in  the  air 

Spent  all  its  force;  my  falchin  then  I  seiz'd,  65 

Advancing  to  attack  my  ireful  foe, 

When  furiously  the  savage  sprung  upon  me 

And  tore  me  to  the  ground;  my  treach'rous  blade 

Above  my  hand  snap'd  short,  and  left  me  quite 

Defenceless  to  his  rage.    Arsaces  then,  70 

Hearing  the  din,  flew  like  some  pitying  pow'r, 

And  quickly  freed  me  from  the  Monster's  paws, 

Drenching  his  bright  lance  in  his  spotted  breast. 

Phraates.     How  diff 'rent  he  from  arrogant  Vardanes! 
That  haughty  Prince  eyes  with  a  stern  contempt  75 

All  other  Mortals,  and  with  lofty  mien 
He  treads  the  earth  as  tho'  he  were  a  God. 
Nay,  I  believe  that  his  ambitious  soul, 
Had  it  but  pow'r  to  its  licentious  wishes, 
Would  dare  dispute  with  Jove  the  rule  of  heav'n;  80 

Like  a  Titanian  son,  with  giant  insolence 
Match  with  the  Gods  and  wage  immortal  war, 
'Til  their  red  wrath  should  hurl  him  headlong  down 
E'en  to  destruction's  lowest  pit  of  horror. 

Gotarzes.     Methinks  he  wears  not  that  becoming  joy        85 
Which  on  this  bright  occasion  gilds  the  court: 
His  brow  's  contracted  with  a  gloomy  frown, 
Pensive  he  stalks  along,  and  seems  a  prey 
To  pining  discontent. 

Phraates.  Arsaces  he  dislikes 

For  standing  'twixt  him  and  the  hope  of  Empire,  90 

While  Envy,  like  a  rav'nous  Vulture,  tears 
His  canker'd  heart  to  see  your  Brother's  triumph. 

Gotarzes.    And  yet  Vardanes  owes  that  hated  Brother 
As  much  as  I.     'T  was  summer  last,  as  we 
Were  bathing  in  Euphrates'  flood,  Vardanes,  95 

Proud  of  strength,  would  seek  the  further  shore; 
But  'ere  he  the  mid-stream  gain'd,  a  poignant  pain 
Shot  thro'  his  well-strung  nerves,  contracting  all, 
And  the  stiff  joints  refus'd  their  wonted  aid. 


THOMAS  GODFREY  59 


Loudly  he  cry'd  for  help:  Arsaces  heard,  100 

And  thro'  the  swelling  waves  he  rush'd  to  save 
His  drowning  Brother,  and  gave  him  life; 
And  for  the  boon  the  Ingrate  pays  him  hate. 

Phraates.    There  's  something  in  the  wind,  for  I  Ve  observ'd 
Of  late  he  much  frequents  the  Queen's  apartment,  105 

And  fain  would  court  her  favour.     Wild  is  she 
To  gain  revenge  for  fell  Vonones'  death, 
And  firm  resolves  the  ruin  of  Arsaces, 
Because  that,  filPd  with  filial  piety, 

To  save  his  Royal  Sire  he  struck  the  bold  no 

Presumptuous  Traitor  dead:  nor  heeds  she 
The  hand  which  gave  her  Liberty,  nay  rais'd  her 
Again  to  Royalty. 

Gotarzes.  Ingratitude, 

Thou  hell-born  fiend,  how  horrid  is  thy  forml 
The  Gods  sure  let  thee  loose  to  scourge  mankind,  115 

And  save  them  from  an  endless  waste  of  thunder. 

Phraates.     Yet  I  Ve  beheld  this  now  so  haughty  Queen 
Bent  with  distress  and  e'en  by  pride  forsook, 
When  following  thy  Sire's  triumphant  car; 
Her  tears  and  ravings  mov'd  the  senseless  herd,  120 

And  pity  blest  their  more  than  savage  breasts 
With  the  short  pleasure  of  a  moments  softness. 
Thy  Father,  conquer'd  by  her  charms  (for  what 
Can  charm  like  mourning  beauty?),  soon  struck  off 
Her  chains,  and  rais'd  her  to  his  bed  and  throne;  125 

Adorn 'd  the  brows  of  her  aspiring  Son, 
The  fierce  Vonones,  with  the  regal  crown 
Of  rich  Armenia,  once  the  happy  rule 
Of  Tisaphernes,  her  deceased  Lord. 

Gotarzcs.     And  he  in  wasteful  war  return'd  his  thanks,   130 
Refus'd  the  homage  he  had  sworn  to  pay, 
And  spread  Destruction  ev'ry  where  around, 
'Til  from  Arsaces  hand  he  met  the  fate 
His  crimes  deserv'd. 

Phraates.  As  yet  your  princely  Brother 

Has  scap'd  Thermusa's  rage;  for,  still  residing  135 

In  peaceful  times  within  his  Province,  ne'er 
Has  fortune  blest  her  with  a  sight  of  him 
On  whom  she  'd  wreck  her  vengeance. 


60  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Gotarzes.  She  has  won 

By  spells,  I  think,  so  much  on  my  fond  father 
That  he  is  guided  by  her  will  alone.  140 

She  rules  the  realm;  her  pleasure  is  a  law; 
All  offices  and  favours  are  bestow'd 
As  she  directs. 

Phraates.  But  see,  the  Prince  Vardanes; 
Proud  Lysias  with  him,  he  whose  soul  is  harsh 
With  jarring  discord.  Nought  but  madding  rage  145 

And  ruffian-like  revenge  his  breast  can  know; 
Indeed,  to  gain  a  point  he  '11  condescend 
To  mask  the  native  rancour  of  his  heart, 
And  smooth  his  venom'd  tongue  with  flattery: 
Assiduous  now  he  courts  Vardanes'  friendship —  150 

See  how  he  seems  to  answer  all  his  gloom, 
And  give  him  frown  for  frown. 

Gotarzes.  Let  us  retire, 

And  shun  them  now:  I  know  not  what  it  means, 
But  chilling  horror  shivers  o'er  my  limbs 
When  Lysias  I  behold.  155 

1759- 


ROBERT  ROGERS 

FROM 

PONTEACH 

OR  THE   SAVAGES   OF   AMERICA 
ACT   I.      SCENE   I 

An  Indian  Trading  House.    Enter  M'Dole  and  Murphey, 
Two  Indian  Traders,  and  their  Servants. 

M'Dole.    So,  Murphey,  you  are  come  to  try  your  Fortune 
Among  the  Savages  in  this  wild  Desart  ? 

Murphey.     Ay,  any  Thing  to  get  an  honest  Living, 
Which,  'faith,  I  find  it  hard  enough  to  do; 
Times  are  so  dull  and  Traders  are  so  plenty 
That  Gains  are  small  and  Profits  come  but  slow. 

M'Dole.    Are  you  experienc'd  in  this  kind  of  Trade  ? 
Know  you  the  Principles  by  which  it  prospers, 
And  how  to  make  it  lucrative  and  safe  ? 


ROBERT  ROGERS  61 


If  not,  you're  like  a  Ship  without  a  Rudder,  ic 

That  drives  at  random  and  must  surely  sink. 

Murphey.     I  'm  unacquainted  with  your  Indian  Commerce, 
And  gladly  would  I  learn  the  Arts  from  you, 
Who  're  old  and  practis'd  in  them  many  Years. 

M'Dole.    That  is  the  curst  Misfortune  of  our  Traders:  15 

A  thousand  Fools  attempt  to  live  this  Way, 
Who  might  as  well  turn  Ministers  of  State. 
Put  as  you  are  a  Friend  I  will  inform  you 
Of  all  the  secret  Arts  by  which  we  thrive; 

Which  if  all  practis'd,  we  might  all  grow  rich,  20 

Nor  circumvent  each  other  in  our  Gains. 
What  have  you  got  to  part  with  to  the  Indians  ? 

Murphey.     I  Ve  Rum  and  Blankets,  Wampum,  Powder,  Bells, 
And  such-like  Trifles  as  they  're  wont  to  prize. 

M'Dole.     'T  is  very  well;  your  Articles  are  good:  25 

But  now  the  Thing  's  to  make  a  Profit  from  them 
Worth  all  your  Toil  and  Pains  of  coming  hither. 
Our  fundamental  Maxim,  then,  is  this, 
That  it  's  no  Crime  to  cheat  and  gull  an  Indian. 

Murphey.     Howl    Not  a  Sin  to  cheat  an  Indian,  say  you  ?        30 
Are  they  not  Men  ?   hav  'nt  they  a  Right  to  Justice 
As  well  as  we,  though  savage  in  their  Manners  ? 

M'Dole.     Ah!    If  you  boggle  here,  I  say  no  more: 
This  is  the  very  Quintessence  of  Trade, 

And  ev'ry  Hope  of  Gain  depends  upon  it;  35 

None  who  neglect  it  ever  did  grow  rich, 
Or  ever  will  or  can,  by  Indian  Commerce. 
By  this  old  Ogden  built  his  stately  House, 
Purchas'd  Estates,  and  grew  a  little  King. 

He,  like  an  honest  Man,  bought  all  by  Weight,  40 

And  made  the  ign'rant  Savages  believe 
That  his  Right  Foot  exactly  weigh 'd  a  Pound: 
By  this  for  many  Years  he  bought  their  Furs, 
And  died  in  Quiet  like  an  honest  Dealer. 

Murphey.    Well,  I  '11  not  stick  at  what  is  necessary;  45 

But  his  Device  is  now  grown  old  and  stale, 
Nor  could  I  manage  such  a  barefac'd  Fraud. 

M'Dole.    A  thousand  Opportunities  present 
To  take  Advantage  of  their  Ignorance; 
But  the  great  Engine  I  employ  is  Rum,  5° 


62  AMERICAN  POEMS 


More  pow'rful  made  by  certain  strength'ning  Drugs. 

This  I  distribute  with  a  lib'ral  Hand, 

Urge  them  to  drink  till  they  grow  mad  and  valiant, 

Which  makes  them  think  me  generous  and  just, 

And  gives  full  Scope  to  practise  all  my  Art.  55 

I  then  begin  my  Trade  with  water'd  Rum: 

The  cooling  Draught  well  suits  their  scorching  Throats; 

Their  Fur  and  Peltry  come  in  quick  Return. 

My  Scales  are  honest,  but  so  well  contriv'd 

That  one  small  Slip  will  turn  Three  Pounds  to  One,  60 

Which  they,  poor  silly  Souls,  ignorant  of  Weights 

And  Rules  of  Balancing,  do  not  perceive. 

But  here  they  come:  you  '11  see  how  I  proceed. 

Jack,  is  the  Rum  prepar  'd  as  I  commanded  ? 

Jack.    Yes,  Sir,  all  's  ready  when  you  please  to  call.  65 

M'Dole.     Bring  here  the  Scales  and  Weights  immediately. 
You  see  the  Trick  is  easy  and  conceal'd. 

[Shewing  how  to  slip  the  Scales. 

Murphey.  By  Jupiter,  it 's  artfully  contriv'd; 
And  was  I  King,  I  swear  I  'd  knight  th'  Inventor. 
Tom,  mind  the  Part  that  you  will  have  to  act.  70 

Tom.    Ah,  never  fear,  I  '11  do  as  well  as  Jack. 
But  then,  you  know,  an  honest  Servant's  Pains 
Deserves  Reward. 

Murphey.         O,  I  '11  take  care  of  that. 

Enter  a  Number  of  Indians,  with  Packs  of  Fur. 

ist  Indian.     So,  what,  you  trade  with  Indians  here  to-day  ? 

M'Dole.    Yes,  if  my  Goods  will  suit,  and  we  agree.  75 

2d  Indian.     'T  is  Rum  we  want:  we  're  tired,  hot,  and  thirsty. 

3d  Indian.     You,  Mr.  Englishman,  have  you  got  Rum  ? 

M'Dole.    Jack,  bring  a  Bottle;  pour  them  each  a  Gill. 
You  know  which  Cask  contains  the  Rum.    The  Rum  ? 

ist  Indian.     It  's  good  strong  Rum;  I  feel  it  very  soon.  80 

M'Dole.     Give  me  a  Glass.     Here  's  Honesty  in  Trade: 
We  English  always  drink  before  we  deal. 

2d  Indian.     Good  Way  enough;  it  ma,kes  one  sharp  and  cunning. 

M'Dole.    Hand  round  another  Gill.     You  're  very  welcome. 

$d  Indian.     Some  say  you  Englishmen  are  sometimes  Rogues:    85 
You  make  poor  Indians  drunk,  and  then  you  cheat. 

ist  Indian.     No,  English  good.     The  Frenchmen  give  no  Rum. 

zd  Indian.     I  think  it  's  best  to  trade  with  Englishmen. 


ROBERT  ROGERS  63 


M'Dole.     What  is  your  Price  for  Beaver  Skins  per  Pound  ? 

1st  Indian.     How  much  you  ask  per  Quart  for  this  strong  Rum  ?  go 

M'Dole.     Five  Pounds  of  Beaver  for  One  Quart  of  Rum. 

ist  Indian.     Five   Pounds?     Too   much.     Which    is  't   you  call 
Five  Pound  ? 

M'Dole.     This  little  Weight.     I  cannot  give  you  more. 

ist  Indian.     Well,  take  'em;  weigh  'em.     Don't  you  cheat  us  now. 

M'Dole.     No:  He  that  cheats  an  Indian  should  be  hang'd.         QS 

[Weighing  the  Packs. 

There  's  Thirty  Pounds  precisely  of  the  Whole; 
Five  times  Six  is  Thirty.     Six  Quarts  of  Rum. 
Jack,  measure  it  to  them;   you  know  the  Cask. 
This  Rum  is  sold.     You  draw  it  off  the  best. 

[Exeunt  Indians  to  receive  their  Rum. 

Murphey.    By  Jove,  you  've  gained  more  in  a  single  Hour         100 
Than  ever  I  have  done  in  Half  a  Year. 
Curse  on  my  Honesty!     I  might  have  been 
A  little  King  and  liv'd  without  Concern, 
Had  I  but  known  the  proper  Arts  to  thrive. 

M'Dole.    Ay,  there  's  the  Way,  my  honest  Friend,  to  live!        105 

[Clapping  his  Shoulder. 

There  's  Ninety  Weight  of  Sterling  Beaver  for  you, 
Worth  all  the  Rum  and  Trinkets  in  my  Store; 
And  would  my  Conscience  let  me  do  the  Thing, 
I  might  enhance  my  Price  and  lessen  theirs 
And  raise  my  Profits  to  an  higher  Pitch.  no 

Murphey.     I  can't  but  thank  you  for  your  kind  Instructions, 
As  from  them  I  expect  to  reap  Advantage. 
But  should  the  Dogs  detect  me  in  the  Fraud, 
They  are  malicious  and  would  have  Revenge. 

M'Dole.     Can't  you  avoid  them  ?     Let  their  Vengeance  light   115 
On  others  Heads,  no  matter  whose,  if  you 
Are  but  secure  and  have  the  Gain  in  Hand; 
For  they  're  indiff 'rent  where  they  take  Revenge, 
Whether  on  him  that  cheated  or  his  Friend, 

Or  on  a  Stranger  whom  they  never  saw,  1 20 

Perhaps  an  honest  Peasant  who  ne'er  dreamt 
Of  Fraud  or  Villainy  in  all  his  Life. 
Such  let  them  murder,  if  they  will,  a  Score; 
The  Guilt  is  theirs,  while  we  secure  the  Gain, 

Nor  shall  we  feel  the  bleeding  Victims  Pain.  125 

\Exeunt. 


64  AMERICAN  POEMS 


FROM 
ACT   II.      SCENE    II 

Ponteach's  Cabbin.     Ponteach,  Philip,  Chekitan,  and  Tenesco. 

Ponteach.     My  Sons,  and  trusty  Counsellor  Tenesco, 
As  the  sweet-smelling  Rose  when  yet  a  Bud 
Lies  close  conceal'd  till  Time  and  the  Sun's  Warmth 
Hath  swell'd,  matur'd,  and  brought  it  forth  to  View, 
So  these  my  Purposes  I  now  reveal  5 

Are  to  be  kept  with  You,  on  pain  of  Death, 
Till  Time  hath  ripen'd  my  aspiring  Plan 
And  Fortune's  Sunshine  shall  disclose  the  Whole; 
Or  should  we  fail,  and  Fortune  prove  perverse, 
Let  it  be  never  known  how  far  we  fail'd,  10 

Lest  Fools  shou'd  triumph  or  our  Foes  rejoice. 

Tenesco.    The  Life  of  great  Designs  is  Secrecy, 
And  in  Affairs  of  State  't  is  Honour's  Guard: 
For  Wisdom  cannot  form  a  Scheme  so  well 

But  Fools  will  laugh  if  it  should  prove  abortive;  15 

And  our  Designs  once  known,  our  Honour  's  made 
Dependent  on  the  Fickleness  of  Fortune. 

Philip.    What  may  your  great  and  secret  Purpose  be, 
That  thus  requires  Concealment  in  its  Birth  ? 

Ponteach.    To  raise  the  Hatchet  from  its  short  Repose,        20 
Brighten  its  Edge,  and  stain  it  deep  with  Blood; 
To  scourge  my  proud,  insulting,  haughty  Foes; 
To  enlarge  my  Empire,  which  will  soon  be  yours. 
Your  Interest,  Glory,  Grandeur  I  consult, 

And  therefore  hope  with  Vigour  you  '11  pursue  25 

And  execute  whatever  I  command. 

Chekitan.     When  we  refuse  Obedience  to  your  Will 
We  are  not  worthy  to  be  call'd  your  Sons. 

Philip.     If  we  inherit  not  our  Father's  Valour, 
We  never  can  deserve  to  share  his  Empire.  30 

Tenesco.     Spoke  like  yourselves,  the  Sons  of  Ponteach. 
Strength,  Courage,  and  Obedience  form  the  Soldier, 
And  the  firm  Base  of  all  true  Greatness  lay. 

Ponteach.     Our  Empire  now  is  large,  our  Forces  strong, 
Our  Chiefs  are  wise,  our  Warriors  valiant  Men;  35 

We  all  are  furnish 'd  with  the  best  of  Arms 
And  all  things  requisite  to  curb  a  Foe; 


ROBERT  ROGERS  65 


And  now  's  our  Time,  if  ever,  to  secure 

Our  Country,  Kindred,  Empire,  all  that 's  dear, 

From  these  Invaders  of  our  Rights,  the  English,  40 

And  set  their  Bounds  towards  the  rising  Sun. 

Long  have  I  seen  with  a  suspicious  Eye 

The  Strength  and  growing  Numbers  of  the  French; 

Their  Forts  and  Settlements  I  Ve  view'd  as  Snakes 

Of  mortal  Bite,  bound  by  the  Winter  Frost,  45 

Which  in  some  future  warm  reviving  Day 

Would  stir  and  hiss,  and  spit  their  Poison  forth, 

And  spread  Destruction  through  our  happy  Land. 

Where  are  we  now  ?    The  French  are  all  subdued, 

But  who  are  in  their  Stead  become  our  Lords  ?  50 

A  proud,  imperious,  churlish,  haughty  Band. 

The  French  familiarized  themselves  with  us, 

Studied  our  Tongue  and  Manners,  wore  our  Dress, 

Married  our  Daughters  and  our  Sons  their  Maids, 

Dealt  honestly  and  well  supplied  our  Wants,  55 

Used  no  One  ill,  and  treated  with  Respect 

Our  Kings,  our  Captains,  and  our  aged  Men, 

Call'd  us  their  Friends,  nay,  what  is  more,  their  Children, 

And  seem'd  like  Fathers  anxious  for  our  Welfare. 

Whom  see  we  now  ?  their  haughty  Conquerors  60 

Possess'd  of  every  Fort  and  Lake  and  Pass, 

Big  with  their  Victories  so  often  gain'd; 

On  us  they  look  with  deep  Contempt  and  Scorn, 

Are  false,  deceitful,  knavish,  insolent; 

Nay,  think  us  conquered  and  our  Country  theirs,  65 

Without  a  Purchase  or  ev'n  asking  for  it. 

With  Pleasure  I  wou'd  call  their  King  my  Friend, 

Yea,  honour  and  obey  him  as  my  Father; 

I  'd  be  content  would  he  keep  his  own  Sea 

And  leave  these  distant  Lakes  and  Streams  to  us;  70 

Nay,  I  would  pay  him  Homage  if  requested, 

And  furnish  Warriors  to  support  his  Cause. 

But  thus  to  lose  my  Country  and  my  Empire, 

To  be  a  Vassal  to  his  low  Commanders, 

Treated  with  Disrespect  and  public  Scorn  75 

By  Knaves,  by  Miscreants,  Creatures  of  his  Power — 

Can  this  become  a  King  like  Ponteach, 

Whose  Empire  's  measured  only  by  the  Sun  ? 


66  AMERICAN  POEMS 


No;  I  '11  assert  my  Right,  the  Hatchet  raise, 

And  drive  these  Britons  hence  like  frighted  Deer,  8c 

Destroy  their  Forts,  and  make  them  rue  the  Day 

That  to  our  fertile  Land  they  found  the  Way. 

1766. 


PHILLIS  WHEATLEY 

AN  HYMN  TO  THE  EVENING 

Soon  as  the  sun  forsook  the  eastern  main, 

The  pealing  thunder  shook  the  heav'nly  plain : 

Majestic  grandeur!     From  the  zephyr's  wing 

Exhales  the  incense  of  the  blooming  spring. 

Soft  purl  the  streams;  the  birds  renew  their  notes,  5 

And  through  the  air  their  mingled  music  floats. 

Through  all  the  heav'ns  what  beauteous  dies  are  spread  I 

But  the  west  glories  in  the  deepest  red: 

So  may  our  breasts  with  ev'ry  virtue  glow, 

The  living  temples  of  our  God  below.  10 

Fill'd  with  the  praise  of  him  who  gives  the  light 

And  draws  the  sable  curtains  of  the  night, 

Let  placid  slumbers  sooth  each  weary  mind 

At  morn  to  wake  more  heav'nly,  more  refin'd; 

So  shall  the  labours  of  the  day  begin  15 

More  pure,  more  guarded  from  the  snares  of  sin. 

Night's  leaden  sceptre  seals  my  drowsy  eyes; 

Then  cease,  my  song,  till  fair  Aurora  rise. 

1773- 


POEMS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

THE  LIBERTY  SONG 
(BY  JOHN  DICKINSON) 

Come  join  hand  in  hand,  brave  Americans  all, 
And  rouse  your  bold  hearts  at  fair  Liberty's  call; 
No  tyrannous  acts  shall  suppress  your  just  claim, 
Or  stain  with  dishonor  America's  name. 


POEMS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  67 

In  freedom  we  're  born  and  in  freedom  we  '11  live;  5 

Our  purses  are  ready, 

Steady,  Friends,  steady, 
Not  as  slaves  but  as  freemen  our  money  we'll  give. 

Our  worthy  forefathers — let 's  give  them  a  cheer — 

To  climates  unknown  did  courageously  steer;  10 

Thro'  oceans  to  deserts  for  freedom  they  came, 

And  dying  bequeath'd  us  their  freedom  and  fame. 

Their  generous  bosoms  all  dangers  despis'd, 

So  highly,  so  wisely,  their  birthrights,  they  priz'd: 

We  '11  keep  what  they  gave,  we  will  piously  keep,  15 

Nor  frustrate  their  toils  on  the  land  or  the  deep. 

The  Tree  their  own  hands  had  to  Liberty  rear'd 

They  lived  to  behold  growing  strong  and  rever'd; 

With  transport  then  cried,  "Now  our  wishes  we  gain, 

For  our  children  shall  gather  the  fruits  of  our  pain."  20 

How  sweet  are  the  labors  that  freemen  endure, 
That  they  shall  enjoy  all  the  profit,  secure: 
No  more  such  sweet  labors  Americans  know, 
If  Britons  shall  reap  what  Americans  sow. 

Swarms  of  placemen  and  pensioners  soon  will  appear,  25 

Like  locusts  deforming  the  charms  of  the  year: 
Suns  vainly  will  rise,  showers  vainly  descend, 
If  we  are  to  drudge  for  what  others  shall  spend. 

Then  join  hand  in  hand,  brave  Americans  all; 

By  uniting  we  stand,  by  dividing  we  fall:  30 

In  so  righteous  a  cause  let  us  hope  to  succeed, 

For  Heaven  approves  of  each  generous  deed. 

All  ages  shall  speak  with  amaze  and  applause 

Of  the  courage  we  '11  show  in  support  of  our  laws: 

To  die  we  can  bear,  but  to  serve  we  disdain,  35 

For  shame  is  to  freemen  more  dreadful  than  pain. 

This  bumper  I  crown  for  our  sovereign's  health, 
And  this  for  Britannia's  glory  and  wealth' 


68  AMERICAN  POEMS 


That  wealth  and  that  glory  immortal  may  be, 

If  she  is  but  just,  and  we  are  but  free.  40 

In  freedom  we  're  born,  &c. 
1768.  1768. 


A  NEW  SONG 

As  near  beauteous  Boston  lying, 

On  the  gently  swelling  flood, 
Without  jack  or  pendant  flying, 

Three  ill-fated  tea-ships  rode, 

Just  as  glorious  Sol  was  setting,  5 

On  the  wharf  a  numerous  crew, 
Sons  of  freedom,  fear  forgetting, 

Suddenly  appeared  in  view. 

Armed  with  hammers,  axe,  and  chisels, 

Weapons  new  for  warlike  deed,  10 

Towards  the  herbage-freighted  vessels 

They  approached  with  dreadful  speed. 

O'er  their  heads  aloft  in  mid-sky 

Three  bright  angel  forms  were  seen: 
This  was  Hampden,  that  was  Sidney,  15 

With  fair  Liberty  between. 

"Soon,"  they  cried,  "your  foes  you  '11  banish, 

Soon  the  triumph  shall  be  won; 
Scarce  shall  setting  Phoebus  vanish 

Ere  the  deathless  deed  be  done."  20 

Quick  as  thought  the  ships  were  boarded, 

Hatches  burst  and  chests  displayed; 
Axes,  hammers  help  afforded; 

What  a  glorious  crash  they  madel 

Squash  into  the  deep  descended  25 

Cursed  weed  of  China's  coast: 
Thus  at  once  our  fears  were  ended — 

British  rights  shall  ne'er  be  lost. 


POEMS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  Oy 

Captains,  once  more  hoist  your  streamers, 

Spread  your  sails  and  plough  the  wave:  30 

Tell  your  masters  they  were  dreamers, 

When  they  thought  to  cheat  the  brave. 
1773-  »773- 


VIRGINIA  BANISHING  TEA 

Begone,  pernicious,  baneful  tea, 

With  all  Pandora's  ills  possessed  I 
Hyson,  no  more  beguiled  by  thee 

My  noble  sons  shall  be  oppressed. 

To  Britain  fly,  where  gold  enslaves,  $ 

And  venal  men  their  birth-right  sell; 
Tell  North  and  his  bribed  clan  of  knaves 

Their  bloody  acts  were  made  in  hell. 

In  Henry's  reign  those  acts  began 

Which  sacred  rules  of  justice  broke;  10 

North  now  pursues  the  hellish  plan, 

To  fix  on  us  his  slavish  yoke. 

But  we  oppose,  and  will  be  free; 

This  great  good  cause  we  will  defend; 
Nor  bribe,  nor  Gage,  nor  North's  decree  15 

Shall  make  us  "at  his  feet  to  bend." 

From  Anglia's  ancient  sons  we  came, 

Those  heroes  who  for  freedom  fought: 
In  freedom's  cause  we  '11  march,  their  fame 

By  their  example  greatly  taught.  20 

Our  king  we  love,  but  North  we  hate 

Nor  will  to  him  submission  own; 
If  death  's  our  doom,  we  '11  brave  our  fate, 

But  pay  allegiance  to  the  throne. 

Then  rouse,  my  sons!  from  slavery  free  25 

Your  suffering  homes,  from  God's  high  wrath ! 

Gird  on  your  steel:  give  liberty 
To  all  who  follow  in  our  pathl 

1774- 


70  AMERICAN  POEMS 


THE  YANKEE'S  RETURN  FROM  CAMP 

Father  and  I  went  down  to  camp, 

Along  with  Captain  Gooding, 
And  there  we  see  the  men  and  boys 
As  thick  as  hasty  pudding. 
Chorus.     Yankee  Doodle,  keep  it  up,  5 

Yankee  Doodle,  dandy, 
Mind  the  music  and  the  step, 
And  with  the  girls  be  handy. 

And  there  we  see  a  thousand  men 

As  rich  as  'Squire  David;  10 

And  what  they  wasted  every  day, 

I  wish  it  could  be  saved. 

The  'lasses  they  eat  every  day 

Would  keep  an  house  a  winter; 
They  have  as  much  that,  I  '11  be  bound,  15 

They  eat  it  when  they  're  a  mind  to. 

And  there  we  see  a  swamping  gun, 

Large  as  a  log  of  maple, 
Upon  a  deuced  little  cart, 

A  load  for  father's  cattle.  20 

And  every  time  they  shoot  it  ofT 

It  takes  a  horn  of  powder, 
And  makes  a  noise  like  father's  gun, 

Only  a  nation  louder. 

I  went  as  nigh  to  one  myself  25 

As  Siah's  underpinning, 
And  father  went  as  nigh  again — 

I  thought  the  deuce  was  in  him. 

Cousin  Simon  grew  so  bold 

I  thought  he  would  have  cock'd  it;  30 

It  scar'd  me  so  I  shrink'd  it  off, 

And  hung  by  father's  pocket. 

And  Captain  Davis  had  a  gun; 

He  kind  of  clapt  his  hand  on  't, 
And  stuck  a  crooked  stabbing  iron  35 

Uoon  the  little  end  on  't. 


POEMS  OF  I  LIE  REVOLUTION 7 1 

And  there  I  see  a  pumpkin  shell 

As  big  as  mother's  bason; 
And  every  time  they  touch 'd  it  off, 

They  scamper'd  like  the  nation.  4c 

I  see  a  little  barrel  too, 

The  heads  were  made  of  leather; 
They  knock'd  upon  't  with  little  clubs, 

And  call'd  the  folks  together. 

And  there  was  Captain  Washington,  45 

And  gentlefolks  about  him; 
They  say  he  's  grown  so  tarnal  proud 

He  will  not  ride  without  'em. 

He  got  him  on  his  meeting  clothes, 
.    Upon  a  slapping  stallion;  5° 

He  set  the  world  along  in  rows, 
In  hundreds  and  in  millions. 

The  flaming  ribbons  in  his  hat, 

They  look'd  so  taring  fine,  ah, 
I  wanted  pockily  to  get,  55 

To  give  to  my  Jemimah. 

I  see  another  snarl  of  men 

A  digging  graves,  they  told  me, 
So  tarnal  long,  so  tarnal  deep, 

They  'tended  they  should  hold  me.  60 

It  scar'd  me  so  I  hook'd  it  off, 

Nor  stop'd,  as  I  remember, 
Nor  turn'd  about,  'till  I  got  home, 

Lock'd  up  in  mother's  chamber. 
About  1775. 

NATHAN  HALE 
The  breezes  went  steadily  thro'  the  tall  pines, 

A  saying  "Oh  hu-ush!"  a  saying  "Oh  hu-ushl" 
As  stilly  stole  by  a  bold  legion  of  horse, 

For  Hale  in  the  bush,  for  Hale  in  the  bush. 

"Keep  still!"  said  the  thrush  as  she  nestled  her  young,  5 

In  a  nest  by  the  road,  in  a  nest  by  the  road; 

"  For  the  tyrants  are  near,  and  with  them  appear 

What  bodes  us  no  good,  what  bodes  us  no  good." 


72  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  brave  captain  heard  it  and  thought  of  his  home, 

In  a  cot  by  the  brook,  in  a  cot  by  the  brook,  10 

With  mother  and  sister  and  memories  dear, 
He  so  gaily  forsook,  he  so  gaily  forsook. 

Cooling  shades  of  the  night  were  coming  apace, 

The  tattoo  had  beat,  the  tattoo  had  beat: 
The  noble  one  sprang  from  his  dark  lurking-place  15 

To  make  his  retreat,  to  make  his  retreat. 

He  warily  trod  on  the  dry  rustling  leaves, 

As  he  pass'd  thro'  the  wood,  as  he  pass'd  thro'  the  wood, 
And  silently  gain'd  his  rude  launch  on  the  shore, 

As  she  play'd  with  the  flood,  as  she  play'd  with  the  flood.     20 

The  guards  of  the  camp,  on  that  dark,  dreary  night, 
Had  a  murderous  will,  had  a  murderous  will: 

They  took  him  and  bore  him  afar  from  the  shore, 
To  a  hut  on  the  hill,  to  a  hut  on  the  hill. 

No  mother  was  there,  nor  a  friend  who  could  cheer,  25 

In  that  little  stone  cell,  in  that  little  stone  cell. 

But  he  trusted  in  love  from  his  father  above: 

In  his  heart  all  was  well,  in  his  heart  all  was  well. 

An  ominous  owl  with  his  solemn  base  voice 

Sat  moaning  hard  by,  sat  moaning  hard  by:  30 

"The  tyrant's  proud  minions  most  gladly  rejoice, 
For  he  must  soon  die,  for  he  must  soon  die." 

The  brave  fellow  told  them,  no  thing  he  restrain'd, 

The  cruel  gen'ral,  the  cruel  gen'ral; 
His  errand  from  camp,  of  the  ends  to  be  gain'd;  35 

And  said  that  was  all,  and  said  that  was  all. 

They  took  him  and  bound  him  and  bore  him  away, 

Down  the  hill's  grassy  side,  down  the  hill's  grassy  side. 

T  was  there  the  base  hirelings,  in  royal  array, 

His  cause  did  deride,  his  cause  did  deride.  40 

Five  minutes  were  given,  short  moments,  no  more, 

For  him  to  repent,  for  him  to  repent: 
He  pray'd  for  his  mother,  he  ask'd  not  another: 

To  Heaven  he  went,  to  Heaven  he  went. 


POEMS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  73 

The  faith  of  a  martyr  the  tragedy  shew'd,  45 

As  he  trod  the  last  stage,  as  he  trod  the  last  stage; 

And  Britons  will  shudder  at  gallant  Hale's  blood, 
As  his  words  do  presage,  as  his  words  do  presage: 

'Thou  pale  king  of  terrors,  thou  life's  gloomy  foe, 

Go  frighten  the  slave,  go  frighten  the  slave;  50 

Tell  tyrants  to  you  their  allegiance  they  owe: 
No  fears  for  the  brave,  no  fears  for  the  brave." 

1776? 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  KEGS 
(BY  FRANCIS  HOPKINSON) 

Gallants,  attend,  and  hear  a  friend 

Trill  forth  harmonious  ditty: 
Strange  things  I  '11  tell,  which  late  befell 

In  Philadelphia  city. 

'T  was  early  day,  as  poets  say,  5 

Just  when  the  sun  was  rising, 
A  soldier  stood  on  a  log  of  wood 

And  saw  a  thing  surprising. 

As  in  amaze  he  stood  to  gaze, 

The  truth  can't  be  denied,  sir,  10 

He  spied  a  score  of  kegs  or  more 

Come  floating  down  the  tide,  sir. 

A  sailor,  too,  in  jerkin  blue, 

This  strange  appearance  viewing, 
First  damn'd  his  eyes,  in  great  surprise,  15 

Then  said,  "Some  mischief 's  brewing: 

"These  kegs,  I  'm  told,  the  rebels  hold, 

Packed  up  like  pickled  herring; 
And  they  're  come  down  t'  attack  the  town, 

In  this  new  way  of  ferrying."  *c 

The  soldier  flew,  the  sailor  too, 

And  scared  almost  to  death,  sir, 
Wore  out  their  shoes  to  spread  the  news, 

And  ran  till  out  of  breath,  sir. 


74  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Now  up  and  down  throughout  the  town  25 

Most  frantic  scenes  were  acted; 
And  some  ran  here  and  others  there, 

Like  men  almost  distracted. 

Some  fire  cried,  which  some  denied, 

But  said  the  earth  had  quaked;  30 

And  girls  and  boys,  with  hideous  noise. 

Ran  through  the  streets  half  naked 

Sir  William,  he,  snug  as  a  flea, 
Lay  all  this  time  a  snoring, 
Nor  dreamed  of  harm,  as  he  lay  warm  35 

Now  in  a  fright  he  starts  upright, 

Awak'd  by  such  a  clatter; 
He  rubs  his  eyes  and  boldly  cries, 
"For  God's  sake,  what 's  the  matter ?"  40 

At  his  bedside  he  then  espied 

Sir  Erskine  at  command,  sir: 
Upon  one  foot  he  had  one  boot, 

And  t'  other  in  his  hand,  sir. 

"Arise,  arise!"  Sir  Erskine  cries;  45 

"The  rebels,  more  's  the  pity, 
Without  a  boat  are  all  afloat 
And  rang'd  before  the  city. 

"The  motley  crew,  in  vessels  new, 

With  Satan  for  their  guide,  sir,  50 

Packed  up  in  bags,  or  wooden  kegs, 
Come  driving  down  the  tide,  sir, 

"Therefore  prepare  for  bloody  war: 
These  kegs  must  all  be  routed, 

Or  surely  we  despis'd  shall  be,  55 

And  British  courage  doubted." 

The  royal  band  now  ready  stand, 

All  ranged  in  dread  array,  sir, 
With  stomachs  stout,  to  see  it  out, 

And  make  a  bloody  day,  sir.  60 


POEMS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  75 

The  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  small  arms  make  a  rattle; 
Since  wars  began,  I  'm  sure  no  man 

Ere  saw  so  strange  a  battle. 

The  rebel  dales,  the  rebel  vales,  65 

With  rebel  trees  surrounded, 
The  distant  woods,  the  hills  and  floods, 

With  rebel  echoes  sounded. 

The  fish  below  swam  to  and  fro, 

Attack'd  from  every  quarter:  70 

"Why  sure,"  thought  they,  "the  devil  's  to  pay 
'Mongst  folks  above  the  water." 

The  kegs,  't  is  said,  though  strongly  made 

Of  rebel  staves  and  hoops,  sir, 
Could  not  oppose  their  powerful  foes,  75 

The  conquering  British  troops,  sir. 

From  morn  till  night  these  men  of  might 

Display'd  amazing  courage, 
And  when  the  sun  was  fairly  down 

Retir'd  to  sup  their  porridge.  80 

An  hundred  men,  with  each  a  pen, 

Or  more,  upon  my  word,  sir, 
It  is  most  true  would  be  too  few 

Their  valor  to  record,  sir. 

Such  feats  did  they  perform  that  day  85 

Against  those  wicked  kegs,  sir, 
That  years  to  come,  if  they  get  home, 

They  '11  make  their  boasts  and  brags,  sir. 
177*. 

THE  BRITISH  LIGHT-INFANTRY 

Hark!  hark!  the  bugle's  lofty  sound, 
Which  makes  the  woods  and  rocks  around 

Repeat  the  martial  strain, 
Proclaims  the  light-arm'd  British  troops 
Advance.     Behold  rebellion  droops,  5 

She  hears  the  sound  with  pain. 


76  AMERICAN  POEMS 

She  sees  their  glitt'ring  arms  with  fear, 
Their  nodding  plumes  approaching  near; 

Her  gorgon  head  she  hides. 

She  flees  in  vain  to  shun  such  foes,  10 

For  Wayne  or  hapless  Baylor  knows 

How  swift  their  vengeance  glides. 

The  nimble  messenger  of  Jove 
On  earth  alights  not  from  above 

With  step  so  light  as  theirs;  !tj 

Hence  they  have  feather' d  caps,  and  wings, 
And  weapons  which  have  keener  stings 

Than  that  gay  Hermes  bears. 

A  myrtle  garland,  with  the  vine, 

Venus  and  Bacchus  shall  entwine,  2O 

About  their  brows  to  place; 
As  types  of  love  and  joy,  beneath 
The  well-earn'd,  budding  laurel-wreath 

Which  shades  each  hero's  face. 

1778. 

THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW 

What  though  last  year  be  past  and  gone, 

Why  should  we  grieve  or  mourn  about  it  ? 
As  good  a  year  is  now  begun, 

And  better  too,  let  no  one  doubt  it. 

T  is  New- Year's  morn;  why  should  we  part  ?  5 

Why  not  enjoy  what  Heaven  has  sent  us  ? 
Let  wine  expand  the  social  heart, 

Let  friends  and  mirth  and  wine  content  us. 

War's  rude  alarms  disturb'd  last  year; 

Our  country  bled  and  wept  around  us:  10 

But  this  each  honest  heart  shall  cheer, 

And  peace  and  plenty  shall  surround  us. 

Last  year  King  Congo,  through  the  land, 
Display'd  his  thirteen  stripes  to  fright  us; 

But  George's  power,  in  Clinton's  hand,  15 

In  this  New- Year  shall  surely  right  us. 


POEMS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  77 

Last  year  saw  many  honest  men 

Torn  from  each  dear  and  sweet  connection; 

But  this  shall  see  them  home  again, 

And  happy  in  their  King's  protection.  20 

Last  year  vain  Frenchmen  brav'd  our  coasts, 
And  baffled  Howe,  and  scap'd  from  Byron; 

But  this  shall  bring  their  vanquish'd  hosts 
To  crouch  beneath  the  British  Lion. 

Last  year  rebellion  proudly  stood,  25 

Elate  in  her  meridian  glory; 
But  this  shall  quench  her  pride  in  blood: 

GEORGE  will  avenge  each  martyr'd  Tory. 

Then  bring  us  wine,  full  bumpers  bring; 

Hail  this  New- Year  in  joyful  chorus:  30 

God  bless  great  GEORGE,  our  gracious  King, 

And  crush  rebellion  down  before  usl 

1779. 

FROM 

THE  AMERICAN  TIMES 

(BY  JONATHAN  ODELL?) 

Hear  thy  indictment,  Washington,  at  large; 

Attend  and  listen  to  the  solemn  charge: 

Thou  hast  supported  an  atrocious  cause 

Against  thy  King,  thy  Country,  and  the  laws; 

Committed  perjury,  encourag'd  lies,  5 

Forced  conscience,  broken  the  most  sacred  ties; 

Myriads  of  wives  and  fathers  at  thy  hand 

Their  slaughter'd  husbands,  slaughtered  sons  demand; 

That  pastures  hear  no  more  the  lowing  kine, 

That  towns  are  desolate,  all,  all  is  thine;  10 

The  frequent  sacrilege  that  pain'd  my  sight, 

The  blasphemies  my  pen  abhors  to  write, 

Innumerable  crimes  on  thee  must  fall, 

For  thou  maintainest,  thou  defendest  all. 

Wilt  thou  pretend  that  Britain  is  in  fault?  15 

In  Reason's  court  a  falsehood  goes  for  nought. 
Will  it  avail,  with  subterfuge  refin'd, 


78  AMERICAN  POEMS 


To  say  such  deeds  are  foreign  to  thy  mind  ? 

Wilt  thou  assert  that,  generous  and  humane, 

Thy  nature  suffers  at  another's  pain  ?  20 

He  who  a  band  of  ruffians  keeps  to  kill, 

Is  he  not  guilty  of  the  blood  they  spill  ? 

Who  guards  M'Kean  and  Joseph  Reed  the  vile, 

Help'd  he  not  murder  Roberts  and  Carlisle  ? 

So,  who  protects  committees  in  the  chair,  25 

In  all  their  shocking  cruelties  must  share. 

What  could,  when  half-way  up  the  hill  to  fame, 
Induce  thee  to  go  back  and  link  with  shame  ? 
Was  it  ambition,  vanity,  or  spite, 

That  prompted  thee  with  Congress  to  unite  ?  30 

Or  did  all  three  within  thy  bosom  roll, 
'Thou  heart  of  hero  with  a  traitor's  soul" ? 
Go,  wretched  author  of  thy  country's  grief, 
Patron  of  villainy,  of  villains  chief; 

Seek  with  thy  cursed  crew  the  central  gloom,  35 

Ere  Truth's  avenging  sword  begin  thy  doom, 
Or  sudden  vengeance  of  celestial  dart 
Precipitate  thee  with  augmented  smart  1 

1780. 


HUGH  H.  BRACKENRIDGE 

FROM 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BUNKERS-HILL 

ACT  V.      SCENE  I 

Bunkers-Hill.     Warren  with  the  American  Army. 

Warren.    To  arms,  brave  countrymen!   for  see,  the  foe 
Comes  forth  to  battle,  and  would  seem  to  try 
Once  more  their  fortune  in  decisive  war. 
Three  thousand  'gainst  seven  hundred  rang'd  this  day 
Shall  give  the  world  an  ample  specimen  5 

What  strength  and  noble  confidence  the  sound 
Of  Liberty  inspires;  that  Liberty 
Which  not  the  thunder  of  Bellona's  voice, 
With  fleets  and  armies  from  the  BRITISH  Shore, 
Shall  wrest  from  us.     Our  noble  ancestors  10 


HUGH  H.  BRACKENRIDGE  7$ 

Out-brav'd  the  tempests  of  the  hoary  deep, 

And  on  these  hills  uncultivate  and  wild 

Sought  an  asylum  from  despotic  sway; 

A  short  asylum,  for  that  envious  power 

With  persecution  dire  still  follows  us.  15 

At  first  they  deem'd  our  charters  forfeited; 

Next  our  just  rights  in  government  abridg'd; 

Then  thrust  in  viceroys  and  bashaws  to  rule 

With  lawless  sovereignty;   now  added  force 

Of  standing  armies  to  secure  their  sway.  20 

Much  have  we  suffer'd  from  the  licens'd  rage 

Of  brutal  soldiery  in  each  fair  town. 

Remember  March,  brave  countrymen,  that  day 

When  BOSTON'S  streets  ran  blood!  think  on  that  day, 

And  let  the  memory  to  revenge  stir  up  25 

The  temper  of  your  souls!  There  might  we  still 

On  terms  precarious  and  disdainful  liv'd, 

With  daughters  ravished  and  butcher'd  sons, 

But  heaven  forbade  the  thought.    These  are  the  men 

Who  in  firm  phalanx  threaten  us  with  war,  30 

And  aim  this  day  to  fix  forever  down 

The  galling  chains  which  tyranny  has  forg'd  for  us. 

These  count  our  lands  and  settlements  their  own,, 

And  in  their  intercepted  letters  speak 

Of  farms  and  tenements  secur'd  for  friends;  35 

Which  if  they  gain,  brave  soldiers,  let  with  blood 

The  purchase  be  seal'd  down!     Let  every  arm  , 

This  day  be  active  in  fair  freedom's  cause, 

And  shower  down  from  the  hill,  like  Heav'n  in  wrath, 

Full  store  of  light'ning  and  fierce  iron  hail  40 

To  blast  the  adversary.     Let  this  ground, 

Like  burning  ^Etna  or  Vesuvius  top, 

Be  wrapt  in  flame.     The  word  is.LiBERTY; 

And  Heaven  smile  on  us  in  so  just  a  cause! 

SCENE  n 

Bunkers-Hill.    Gardiner,  Leading  up  his  Men  to  the  Engagement. 
Fear  not,  brave  soldiers,  tho'  their  infantry 
In  deep  array  so  far  out-numbers  us: 
The  justness  of  our  cause  will  brace  each  arm 
And  steel  the  soul  with  fortitude,  while  they, 


go  AMERICAN  POEMS 

Whose  guilt  hangs  trembling  on  their  consciences,  5 

Must  fail  in  battle  and  receive  that  death 

Which  in  high  vengeance  we  prepare  for  them. 

Let,  then,  each  spirit,  to  the  height  wound  up, 

Shew  noble  vigour  and  full  force  this  day, 

For  on  the  merit  of  our  swords  is  plac'd  10 

The  virgin  honour  and  true  character 

Of  this  whole  Continent,  and  one  short  hour 

May  give  complexion  to  the  whole  event, 

Fixing  the  judgment  whether  as  base  slaves 

We  serve  these  masters,  or  more  nobly  live  15 

Free  as  the  breeze  that  on  the  hill-top  plays, 

With  these  sweet  fields  and  tenements  our  own. 

Oh  fellow  soldiers,  let  this  battle  speak 

Dire  disappointment  to  the  insulting  foe, 

Who  claim  our  fair  possessions  and  set  down  20 

These  cultur'd  farms  and  bowry  hills  and  plains 

As  the  rich  prize  of  certain  victory. 

Shall  we,  the  sons  of  MASSACHUSETTS-BAY, 

NEW  HAMPSHIRE,  and  CONNECTICUT,  shall  we 

Fall  back,  dishonour'd,  from  our  native  plains,  25 

Mix  with  the  savages  and  roam  for  food 

On  western  mountains  or  the  desart  shores 

Of  Canada's  cold  lakes  ?  or,  state  more  vile, 

Sit  down  in  humble  vassalage,  content 

To  till  the  ground  for  these  proud  conquerors  ?  30 

No,  fellow  soldiers,  let  us  rise  this  day 

Emancipate  from  such  ignoble  choice. 

And  should  the  battle  ravish  our  sweet  lives, 

Late  time  shall  give  an  ample  monument 

And  bid  her  worthies  emulate  our  fame.  35 

SCENE  III 

Boston.     The  British  Army  being  Repuls'd,  Sherwin  is  dispatched  to  General 
Gage  for  Assistance.    Sherwin,  Gage,  Burgoyne,  and  Clinton. 

Sherwin.     Our  men,  advancing,  have  received  dire  loss 
In  this  encounter,  and  the  case  demands, 
In  the  swift  crisis  of  extremity, 
A  thousand  men  to  reinforce  the  war. 

Gage.    Do  as  you  please,  BURGOYNE,  in  this  affair.  5 

I  '11  hide  myself  in  some  deep  vault  beneath.  [Exit. 


HUGH  H.  BRACKEN  RIDGE  Si 

Burgoyne.     T  is  yours,  brave  CLINTON,  to  command  these 

men. 

Embark  them  speedily.     I  see  our  troops 
Stand  on  the  margin  of  the  ebbing  flood 

(The  flood  affrighted  at  the  scene  it  views),  10 

And  fear  once  more  to  climb  the  desp'rate  hill 
Whence  the  bold  rebel  showr's  destruction  down.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  rv 

Warren,  mortally  wounded,  falling  on  his  right  knee,  covering  his  breast  with 
his  right  hand,  and  supporting  himself  with  his  firelock  in  his  left. 
A  deadly  ball  hath  limited  my  life, 
And  now  to  God  I  offer  up  my  soul. 
But,  oh  my  Countrymen,  let  not  the  cause, 
The  sacred  cause  of  liberty,  with  me 

Faint  or  expire!  By  the  last  parting  breath  5 

And  blood  of  this  your  fellow  soldier  slain, 
Be  now  adjur'd  never  to  yield  the  right, 
The  grand  deposite  of  all-giving  heaven 
To  man's  free  nature,  that  he  rule  himself. 
With  these  rude  Britons  wage  life-scorning  war,  10 

Till  they  admit  it  and  like  hell  fall  oil, 
With  ebbing  billows,  from  this  troubl'd  coast, 
Where  but  for  them  firm  Concord  and  true  love 
Should  individual  hold  their  court  and  reign. 
Th'  infernal  engin'ry  of  state  resist  15 

To  death,  that  unborn  times  may  be  secure, 
And,  while  men  flourish  in  the  peace  you  win, 
Write  each  fair  name  with  worthies  of  the  earth. 
Weep  not  your  Gen'ral  who  is  snatch'd  this  day 
From  the  embraces  of  a  family,  20 

Five  virgin  daughters  young  and  unendow'd, 
Now  with  the  foe  left  lone  and  fatherless. 
Weep  not  for  him  who  first  espous'd  the  cause, 
And,  risking  life,  have  met  the  enemy 

In  fatal  opposition,  but  rejoyce;  25 

For  now  I  go  to  mingle  with  the  dead, 
Great  Brutus,  Hampden,  Sidney,  and  the  rest, 
Of  old  or  modern  memory,  who  liv'd 
A  mound  to  tyrants  and  strong  hedge  to  kings, 
Bounding  the  inundation  of  their  rage  30 


82  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Against  the  happiness  and  peace  of  man. 

I  see  these  heroes  where  they  walk  serene 

By  chrystal  currents  on  the  vale  of  Heaven, 

High  in  full  converse  of  immortal  acts 

Atchiev'd  for  truth  and  innocence  on  earth.  35 

Mean  time  the  harmony  and  thrilling  sound 

Of  mellow  lutes,  sweet  viols,  and  guittars 

Dwell  on  the  soul  and  ravish  ev'ry  nerve. 

Anon  the  murmur  of  the  tight-brac'd  drum, 

With  finely  varied  fifes  to  martial  airs,  40 

Wind  up  the  spirit  to  the  mighty  proof 

Of  siege  and  battle  and  attempt  in  arms. 

Illustrious  group!  They  beckon  me  along 

To  ray  my  vissage  with  immortal  light 

And  bind  the  amarinth  around  my  brow.  45 

I  come,  I  come,  ye  first-born  of  true  fame! 

Fight  on,  my  countrymen!    be  FREE,  be  FREE! 

SCENE  v 

Charlestown.  The  Reinforcement  landed,  and  Orders  given  to  burn  Charles- 
town,  that  they  may  march  up  more  securely  under  the  smoke.  General 
Howe  Rallies  his  Repuls'd  and  Broken  Troops. 

Howe.     Curse  on  the  fortune  of  BRITANNIA'S  arms, 

That  plays  the  jilt  with  us!  Shall  these  few  men 

Beat  back  the  flower  and  best  half  of  our  troops, 

While  on  our  side  so  many  ships  of  war 

And  floating  batt'ries  from  the  Mystic  tide  5 

Shake  all  the  hill  and  sweep  its  ridgy  top  ? 

Oh  Gods,  no  time  can  blot  its  memory  out! 

We  Ve  men  enough  upon  the  field  to  day 

To  bury  this  small  handful  with  the  dust 

Our  march  excites.     Back  to  the  charge!  Close  ranks,  10 

And  drive  these  wizzards  from  th'  enchanted  ground! 

The  reinforcement  which  bold  CLINTON  heads 

Gives  such  superiority  of  strength 

That,  let  each  man  of  us  but  cast  a  stone, 

We  cover  this  small  hill  with  these  few  foes  15 

And  over  head  erect  a  pyramid. 

The  smoke,  you  see,  enwraps  us  in  its  shade. 

On,  then,  my  countrymen,  and  try  once  more 

To  change  the  fortune  of  the  inglorious  day! 


HUGH  H.  BRACKENRIDGE  83 

SCENE   VI 

Bunkers-Hill.     Gardiner,  to  the  American  Army. 
You  see,  brave  soldiers,  how  an  evil  cause, 
A  cause  of  slavery  and  civil  death, 
Unmans  the  spirit  and  strikes  down  the  soul. 
The  gallant  Englishman,  whose  fame  in  arms 
Through  every  clime  shakes  terribly  the  globe,  5 

Is  found  this  day  shorn  off  his  wonted  strength, 
Repuls'd  and  driven  from  the  flaming  hill. 
Warren  is  fallen  on  fair  honour's  bed, 
Pierc'd  in  the  breast,  with  ev'ry  wound  before. 
T  is  ours  now  tenfold  to  avenge  his  death  10 

And  offer  up  a  reg'ment  of  the  foe, 
Achilles-like,  upon  the  Heroe's  tomb. 
See,  reinforc'd  they  face  us  yet  again 
And  onward  move  in  Phalanx  to  the  war. 
Oh  noble  spirits,  let  this  bold  attack  15 

Be  bloody  to  their  host!   GOD  is  our  Aid: 
Give,  then,  full  scope  to  just  revenge  this  day  I 

SCENE  vn 
The  Bay-Shore.     The  British  Army  once  more  repids'd,  Howe  again  rallies 

his  flying  Troops. 

Howe.     But  that  so  many  mouths  can  witness  it, 
I  would  deny  myself  an  Englishman, 
And  swear  this  day  that  with  such  cowardice 
No  kindred  or  alliance  has  my  birth. 

Oh  base  degen'rate  souls,  whose  ancestors  5 

At  Cressy,  Poictiers,  and  at  Agincourt 
With  tenfold  numbers  combated,  and  pluck 'd 
The  budding  laurels  from  the  brows  of  France! 
Back  to  the  charge  once  more!  and  rather  die, 
Burn'd  up  and  wither'd  on  this  bloody  hill,  10 

Than  live  the  blemish  of  your  Country's  fame. 
With  everlasting  infamy  oppress'dl 
Their  ammunition,  as  you  hear,  is  spent, 
So  that  unless  their  looks  and  visages, 

.Like  fierce-ey'd  Basilisks,  can  strike  you  dead,  15 

Return  and  rescue  yet,  sweet  Countrymen, 
Some  share  of  honour  on  this  hapless  day! 


84  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Let  some  brave  officers  stand  on  the  rear, 

And  with  the  small  sword  and  sharp  bayonet 

Drive  on  each  coward  that  attempts  to  lag,  20 

That  thus  sure  death  may  find  the  villain  out 

With  more  dread  certainty  than  him  who  moves 

Full  in  the  van  to  meet  the  wrathful  foe. 

SCENE    VIII 

Bunkers-Hill.     Gardiner  desperately  wounded  and  borne  from  the  field  by 

two  Soldiers. 
Gardiner.     A  musket-ball,  death-wing'd,  hath  pierc'd  my 

groin 

And  widely  op'd  the  swift  curr'nt  of  my  veins. 
Bear  me,  then,  Soldiers,  to  that  hollow  space 
A  little  hence,  just  in  the  hill's  decline. 

A  surgeon  there  may  stop  the  gushing  wound  5 

And  gain  a  short  respite  to  life,  that  yet 
I  may  return  and  fight  one  half  hour  more. 
Then  shall  I  die  in  peace,  and  to  my  GOD 
Surrender  up  the  spirit  which  he  gave. 

SCENE    IX 

Putnam,  to  the  American  Army. 
Swift-rising  fame  on  early  wing  mounts  up 
To  the  convexity  of  bending  Heaven, 
And  writes  each  name  who  fought  with  us  this  day 
In  fairest  character  amidst  the  stars. 

The  world  shall  read  it  and  still  talk  of  us  5 

Who,  far  out-number'd,  twice  drove  back  the  foe, 
With  carnage  horrid,  murm'ring  to  their  ships. 
The  Ghost  of  WARREN  says  "Enough!"  I  see 
One  thousand  veterans  mingled  with  the  dust. 
Now  for  our  sacred  honour,  and  the  wound  10 

Which  Gard'ner  feels,  once  more  we  charge!  once  more, 
Dear  friends!  And  fence  the  obscur'd  hill 
With  hecatombs  of  slain!     Let  every  piece 
Flash  like  the  fierce-consuming  fire  of  Heaven, 
And  make  the  smoke  in  which  they  wrap  themselves .  15 

'A  darkness  visible."     Now  once  again 
Receive  the  battle,  as  a  shore  of  rock 


HUGH  H.  BRACKENRIDGE  85 

The  ocean  wave!     And  if  at  last  we  yield, 

Leave  many  a  death  amidst  their  hollow  ranks 

To  damp  the  measure  of  their  dear-bought  joy.  20 

SCENE   X   AND   LAST 

Bunkers-Hill.     The   American   Army,  overpowered  by  numbers,  are  obliged 
to  retreat.     Enter  Howe,  Pigot,  and  Clinton  with  the  British  Army. 

Richardson,  a  young  OJficer,  en  the  Parapet. 
The  day  is  ours!  huzza,  the  day  is  ours! 
This  last  attack  has  forc'd  them  to  retreat. 

Clinton.     'T  is  true,  full  victory  declares  for  us, 
But  we  have  dearly,  dearly,  purchas'd  it. 

Full  fifteen  hundred  of  our  men  lie  dead,  5 

Who,  with  their  officers,  do  swell  the  list 
Of  this  day's  carnage.     On  the  well-fought  hill 
Whole  ranks,  cut  down,  lie  struggling  with  their  wounds 
Or  close  their  bright  eyes  in  the  shades  of  night. 
No  wonder:  such  incessant  musketry  10 

And  fire  of  Cannon  from  the  hill-top  pour'd 
Seem'd  not  the  agency  of  mortal  men 
But  heaven  itself,  with  snares  and  vengeance  arm'd 
T'  oppose  our  gaining  it.     E'en  when  was  spent 
Their  ammunition,  and  fierce  WARREN  slain,  15 

Huge  stones  were  hurled  from  the  rocky  brow, 
And  war  renew'd  by  these  inveterate, 
Till,  GARD'NER  wounded,  the  left  wing  gave  way, 
And  with  their  shatter'd  infantry  the  whole, 
Drawn  off  by  PUTNAM,  to  the  causeway  fled,  20 

When  from  the  ships  and  batt'ries  on  the  wave 
They  met  deep  loss  and  strew'd  the  narrow  bridge 
With  lifeless  carcases.     O  such  a  day, 
Since  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  sunk  in  flames, 
Hath  not  been  heard  of  by  the  ear  of  man,  25 

Nor  hath  an  eye  beheld  its  parallel  1 

Lord  Pigot.     The  day  is  ours,  but  with  heart-piercing  loss 
Of  soldiers  slain  and  gallant  officers. 
Old  Abercrombie  on  the  field  lies  dead, 

Pitcairn  and  Sherwin  in  sore  battle  slain;  30 

The  gallant  reg'ment  of  Welsh  fusileers 
To  seventeen  privates  is  this  day  reduc'd; 
The  grenadiers  stand  thinly  on  the  hill, 


86  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Like  the  tall  fir-trees  on  the  blasted  heath, 

Scorch'd  by  the  autumnal  burnings  which  have  rush'd  35 

With  wasting  fire  fierce  through  its  leafy  groves. 

Should  ev'ry  hill,  by  the  rebellious  foe 

So  well  defended,  cost  thus  dear  to  us, 

Not  the  united  forces  of  the  world 

Could  master  them  and  the  proud  rage  subdue  40 

Of  these  AMERICANS. 

Howe.     E'en  in  an  enemy  I  honour  worth 
And  valour  eminent.     The  vanquish'd  foe 
In  feats  of  prowess  shew  their  ancestry 

And  speak  their  birth  legitimate,  45 

The  sons  of  Britons,  with  the  genuine  flame 
Of  British  heat  and  valour  in  their  veins. 
What  pity  't  is  such  excellence  of  mind 
Should  spend  itself  in  the  fantastic  cause 

Of  wild-fire  liberty.     Warren  is  dead,  50 

And  lies  unburied  on  the  smoky  hill; 
But  with  rich  honours  he  shall  be  inhum'd, 
To  teach  our  soldiery  how  much  we  love 
E'en  in  a  foe  true  worth  and  noble  fortitude. 
Come,  then,  brave  soldiers,  and  take  up  the  dead,  55 

Majors  and  Col'nels  which  are  this  day  slain, 
And  noble  Captains  of  sweet  live  bereft. 
Fair  flowers  shall  grow  upon  their  grassy  tombs, 
And  fame  in  tears  shall  tell  their  tragedy 

To  many  a  widow  and  soft  weeping  maid  60 

Or  parent  woe-ful  for  an  only  son, 
Through  mourning  BRITAIN  and  HIBERNIA'S  Isle. 

Enter  Burgoyne  from  Boston. 
Oft  have  I  read  in  the  historic  page 
And  witnessed  myself  high  scenes  in  war, 

But  this  rude  day,  unparallel'd  in  time,  ,  65 

Has  no  competitor.     The  gazing  eye 
Of  many  a  soldier  from  the  chimney-tops 
And  spires  of  Boston  witnessed  when  Howe, 
With  his  full  thousands  moving  up  the  hill, 
Receiv'd  the  onset  of  the  impetuous  foe;  70 

The  hill  itself,  like  Ida's  burning  mount 
When  Jove  came  down  in  terrors  to  dismay 
The  Grecian  host,  enshrowded  in  thick  flames; 


JOHN  TRUMBULL  87 


And  round  its  margin,  to  the  ebbing  wave, 
A  town  on  fire  and  rushing  from  its  base  75 

With  ruin  hideous  and  combustion  down. 
Mean  time  deep  thunder  from  the  hollow  sides 
Of  the  artilPry  on  the  hill  top  hear'd, 
With  roar  of  thunder  and  loud  mortars  play'd 
From  the  tall  ships  and  batt'ries  on  the  wave,  So 

Bade  yon  blue  ocean  and  wide  heaven  resound. 
A  scene  like  which,  perhaps,  no  time  shall  know 
'Till  heav'n  with  final  ruin  fires  the  ball, 
Burns  up  the  cities  and  the  works  of  men, 

And  wraps  the  mountains  in  one  gen'ral  blaze.         [Exeunt.     85 

1776. 

JOHN  TRUMBULL 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  DULNESS 

FROM 
PART    I,    OR    THE    ADVENTURES   OF   TOM    BRAINLESS 

"Our  Tom  has  grown  a  sturdy  boy: 
His  progress  fills  my  heart  with  joy; 
A  steady  soul  that  yields  to  rule, 
And  quite  ingenious,  too,  at  school. 

Our  master  says  (I  'm  sure  he  's  right)  5 

There  's  not  a  lad  in  town  so  bright: 
He  '11  cypher  bravely,  write  and  read, 
And  say  his  catechism  and  creed, 
And  scorns  to  hesitate  or  falter 

In  Primer,  Spelling-book,  or  Psalter.  10 

Hard  work,  indeed,  he  does  not  love  it — 
His  genius  is  too  much  above  it. 
Give  him  a  good  substantial  teacher, 
I  '11  lay  he  'd  make  a  special  preacher. 
I've  loved  good  learning  all  my  life:  15 

We  '11  send  the  lad  to  college,  wife." 

Thus,  sway'd  by  fond  and  sightless  passion, 
His  parents  held  a  consultation; 
If  on  their  couch  or  round  their  fire, 
I  need  not  tell  nor  you  enquire.  20 

The  point  's  agreed;   the  boy  well  pleased, 


88  AMERICAN  POEMS 


From  country  cares  and  labor  eased: 

No  more  to  rise  by  break  of  day 

To  drive  home  cows  or  deal  out  hay; 

To  work  no  more  in  snow  or  hail,  25 

And  blow  his  fingers  o'er  the  flail, 

Or  mid  the  toils  of  harvest  sweat 

Beneath  the  summer's  sultry  heat; 

Serene  he  bids  the  farm  good-bye, 

And  quits  the  plough  without  a  sigh.  30 

Propitious  to  their  constant  friend, 

The  pow'rs  of  idleness  attend. 

So  to  the  priest  in  form  he  goes, 
Prepared  to  study  and  to  doze. 

The  parson  in  his  youth  before  35 

Had  run  the  same  dull  progress  o'er, 
His  sole  concern  to  see  with  care 
His  church  and  farm  in  good  repair. 
His  skill  in  tongues  that  once  he  knew 
Had  bid  him  long  a  last  adieu;  40 

Away  his  Latin  rules  had  fled, 
And  Greek  had  vanish'd  from  his  head 

Two  years  thus  spent  in  gathering  knowledge, 
The  lad  sets  forth  t'  unlade  at  college, 
While  down  his  sire  and  priest  attend  him,  45 

To  introduce  and  recommend  him; 
Or,  if  detain'd,  a  letter  's  sent 
Of  much  apocryphal  content, 
To  set  him  forth,  how  dull  soever, 

As  very  learn 'd  and  very  clever:  50 

A  genius  of  the  first  emission, 
With  burning  love  for  erudition, 
So  studious  he  '11  outwatch  the  moon 
And  think  the  planets  set  too  soon; 

He  had  but  little  time  to  fit  in;  55 

Examination,  too,  must  frighten; 
Depend  upon  't  he  must  do  well, 
He  knows  much  more  than  he  can  tell; 
Admit  him,  and  in  little  space 

He  '11  beat  his  rivals  in  the  race;  60 

His  father's  incomes  are  but  small — 
He  comes  now,  if  he  come  at  all. 


JOHN  T  RUM  BULL  89 


So  said,  so  done,  at  college  now 
He  enters  well,  no  matter  how. 

New  scenes  awhile  his  fancy  please,  65 

But  all  must  yield  to  love  of  ease 

Four  years  at  college  dozed  away 
In  sleep  and  slothfulness  and  play, 
Too  dull  for  vice,  with  clearest  conscience, 
Charged  with  no  fault  but  that  of  nonsense, —  70 

And  nonsense  long,  with  serious  air, 
Has  wander'd  unmolested  there, — 
He  passes  trial,  fair  and  free, 
And  takes  in  form  his  first  degree 

Now  to  some  priest  that  's  famed  for  teaching  75 

He  goes  to  learn  the  art  of  preaching, 
And  settles  down  with  earnest  zeal 
Sermons  to  study  and  to  steal. 
Six  months  from  all  the  world  retires 

To  kindle  up  his  cover'd  fires;  80 

Learns,  with  nice  art,  to  make  with  ease 
The  scriptures  speak  whate'er  he  please; 
With  judgment,  unperceived  to  quote 
What  Pool  explain'd  or  Henry  wrote; 
To  give  the  gospel  new  editions,  85 

Split  doctrines  into  propositions, 
Draw  motives,  uses,  inferences, 
And  torture  words  in  thousand  senses; 
Learn  the  grave  style  and  goodly  phrase, 
Safe  handed  down  from  Cromwell's  days,  oo 

And  shun,  with  anxious  care,  the  while, 
The  infection  of  a  modern  style; 
Or  on  the  wings  of  folly  fly 
Aloft  in  metaphysic  sky, 

The  system  of  the  world  explain  95 

Till  night  and  chaos  come  again; 
Deride  what  old  divines  can  say, 
Point  out  to  heaven  a  nearer  way, 
Explode  all  known  establish'd  rules, 

Affirm  our  fathers  all  were  fools.  100 

(The  present  age  is  growing  wise, 
But  wisdom  in  her  cradle  lies; 
Late,  like  Minerva,  born  and  bred, 


90  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Not  from  a  Jove's  but  scribbler's  head, 

While  thousand  youths  their  homage  lend  her,  105 

And  nursing  fathers  rock  and  tend  her.) 

Round  him  much  manuscript  is  spread: 
Extracts  from  living  works  and  dead, 
Themes,  sermons,  plans  of  controversy 
That  hack  and  mangle  without  mercy,  no 

And  whence,  to  glad  the  reader's  eyes, 
The  future  dialogue  shall  rise. 
At  length,  matured  the  grand  design, 
He  stalks  abroad  a  grave  divine. 

Mean  while,  from  every  distant  seat,  115 

At  stated  time  the  clergy  meet: 
Our  hero  comes,  his  sermon  reads, 
Explains  the  doctrine  of  his  creeds, 
A  licence  gains  to  preach  and  pray, 

And  makes  his  bow  and  goes  his  way.  1 20 

What  though  his  wits  could  ne'er  dispense 
One  page  of  grammar  or  of  sense; 
What  though  his  learning  be  so  slight 
He  scarcely  knows  to  spell  or  write; 

What  though  his  skull  be  cudgel-proof —  125 

He  's  orthodox,  and  that  's  enough 

Now  in  the  desk,  with  solemn  air, 
Our  hero  makes  his  audience  stare; 
Asserts  with  all  dogmatic  boldness, 

Where  impudence  is  yoked  to  dulness;  130 

Reads  o'er  his  notes  with  halting  pace, 
Mask'd  in  the  stiffness  of  his  face, 
With  gestures  such  as  might  become 
Those  statues  once  that  spoke  at  Rome, 
Or  Livy's  ox  that  to  the  state  135 

Declared  the  oracles  of  fate; 
In  awkward  tones,  nor  said  nor  sung, 
Slow  rumbling  o'er  the  falt'ring  tongue, 
Two  hours  his  drawling  speech  holds  on, 
And  names  it  preaching  when  he  's  done.  140 

With  roving  tired,  he  fixes  down 
For  life  in  some  unsettled  town: 
People  and  priest  full  well  agree, 
For  why — they  know  no  more  than  he. 


JOHN  T  RUM  BULL  91 


Vast  tracts  of  unknown  land  he  gains,  145 

Better  than  those  the  moon  contains; 

There  deals  in  preaching  and  in  prayer, 

And  starves  on  sixty  pounds  a  year, 

And  culls  his  texts  and  tills  his  farm, 

Does  little  good  and  little  harm;  150 

On  Sunday,  in  his  best  array, 

Deals  forth  the  dulness  of  the  day, 

And  while  above  he  spends  his  breath 

The  yawning  audience  nod  beneath. 

1772. 


FROM 
PART  III,  OR  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  MISS  HARRIET  SIMPER 

First  from  the  dust  our  sex  began, 

But  woman  was  refined  from  man; 

Received  again,  with  softer  air, 

The  great  Creator's  forming  care. 

And  shall  it  no  attention  claim  5 

Their  beauteous  infant  souls  to  frame  ? 

Shall  half  your  precepts  tend  the  while 

Fair  nature's  lovely  work  to  spoil, 

The  native  innocence  deface, 

The  glowing  blush,  the  modest  grace;  10 

On  follies  fix  their  young  desire, 

To  trifles  bid  their  souls  aspire, 

Fill  their  gay  heads  with  whims  of  fashion 

And  slight  all  other  cultivation; 

Let  every  useless,  barren  weed  15 

Of  foolish  fancy  run  to  seed, 

And  make  their  minds  the  receptacle 

Of  every  thing  that  's  false  and  fickle; 

Where  gay  caprice,  with  wanton  air. 

And  vanity  keep  constant  fair,  20 

Where  ribbons,  laces,  patches,  puffs, 

Caps,  jewels,  ruffles,  tippets,  muffs, 

With  gaudy  whims  of  vain  parade, 

Croud  each  apartment  of  the  head; 

Where  stands,  display'd  with  costly  pains,  25 

The  toyshop  of  coquettish  brains, 


92  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  high-crown'd  caps  hang  out  the  sign, 

And  beaux  as  customers  throng  in; 

Whence  sense  is  banish 'd  in  disgrace, 

Where  wisdom  dares  not  show  her  face,  30 

Where  the  light  head  and  vacant  brain 

Spoil  all  ideas  they  contain, 

As  th'  air-pump  kills  in  half  a  minute 

Each  living  thing  you  put  within  it  ? 

It  must  be  so:  by  ancient  rule  35 

The  fair  are  nursed  in  folly's  school, 
And  all  their  education  done 
Is  none  at  all,  or  worse  than  none; 
Whence  still  proceed  in  maid  or  wife 

The  follies  and  the  ills  of  life.  40 

Learning  is  call'd  our  mental  diet, 
That  serves  the  hungry  mind  to  quiet 
That  gives  the  genius  fresh  supplies, 
Till  souls  grow  up  to  common  size; 

But  here,  despising  sense  refined,  45 

Gay  trifles  feed  the  youthful  mind: 
Chameleons  thus,  whose  colours  airy 
As  often  as  coquettes  can  vary, 
Despise  all  dishes  rich  and  rare, 

And  diet  wholly  on  the  air;  50 

Think  fogs  blest  eating,  nothing  finer, 
And  can  on  whirlwinds  make  a  dinner; 
And  thronging  all  to  feast  together, 
Fare  daintily  in  blust'ring  weather. 

Here  to  the  fair  alone  remain  55 

Long  years  of  action  spent  in  vain. 
Perhaps  she  learns  (what  can  she  less  ?) 
The  arts  of  dancing  and  of  dress; 
But  dress  and  dancing  are  to  women 

Their  education's  mint  and  cummin:  >o 

These  lighter  graces  should  be  taught, 
And  weightier  matters  not  forgot; 
For  there  where  only  these  are  shown 
The  soul  will  fix  on  these  alone. 

Then  most  the  fineries  of  dress  65 

Her  thoughts,  her  wish,  and  time  possess: 
She  values  only  to  be  gay, 


JOHN  TRUMBULL  93 


And  works  to  rig  herself  for  play; 

Weaves  scores  of  caps  with  diff'rent  spires, 

And  all  varieties  of  wires;  70 

Gay  ruffles  varying  just  as  flow'd 

The  tides  and  ebbings  of  the  mode; 

Bright  flow'rs  and  topknots  waving  high, 

That  float  like  streamers  in  the  sky; 

Work'd  catgut  handkerchiefs,  whose  flaws  75 

Display  the  neck  as  well  as  gauze; 

Or  network  aprons  somewhat  thinnish, 

That  cost  but  six  weeks  time  to  finish, 

And  yet  so  neat  as  you  must  own 

You  could  not  buy  for  half  a  crown.  80 

Perhaps  in  youth  (for  country  fashion 

Prescribed  that  mode  of  education) 

She  wastes  long  months  in  still  more  tawdry 

And  useless  labours  of  embroid'ry; 

With  toil  weaves  up  for  chairs  together  85 

Six  bottoms  quite  as  good  as  leather; 

A  set  of  curtains,  tapestry-work, 

The  figures  frowning  like  the  Turk; 

A  tentstitch  picture,  work  of  folly, 

With  portraits  wrought  of  Dick  and  Dolly;  90 

A  coat  of  arms  that  mark'd  her  house, 

Three  owls  rampant,  the  crest  a  goose; 

Or  shows  in  waxwork  goodman  Adam, 

And  serpent  gay  gallanting  madam — 

A  woful  mimickry  of  Eden,  95 

With  fruit  that  needs  not  be  forbidden 

As  though  they  meant  to  take  by  blows 
Th'  opposing  galleries  of  beaux, 
To  church  the  female  squadron  move, 
All  arm'd  with  weapons  used  in  love:  100 

Like  colour'd  ensigns  gay  and  fair 
High  caps  rise  floating  in  the  air; 
Bright  silk  its  varied  radiance  flings, 
And  streamers  wave  in  kissing-strings; 
Each  bears  th'  artilFry  of  her  charms,  105 

Like  training  bands  at  viewing  arms. 
So  once,  in  fear  of  Indian  beating, 
Our  grandsires  bore  their  guns  to  meeting, 


94  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Each  man  equipp'd  on  Sunday  morn 

With  psalm-book,  shot,  and  powder-horn,  no 

And  look'd  in  form,  as  all  must  grant, 

Like  th'  ancient  true  church  militant; 

Or  fierce,  like  modern  deep  divines, 

Who  fight  with  quills  like  porcupines. 

Or  let  us  turn  the  style  and  see  115 

Our  belles  assembled  o'er  their  tea, 
Where  folly  sweetens  ev'ry  theme, 
And  scandal  serves  for  sugar'd  cream. 

"And  did  you  hear  the  news?"  they  cry; 
"The  court  wear  caps  full  three  feet  high,  120 

Built  gay  with  wire,  and  at  the  end  on  't 
Red  tassels  streaming  like  a  pendant: 
Well,  sure,  it  must  be  vastly  pretty; 
'T  is  all  the  fashion  in  the  city. 

And  were  you  at  the  ball  last  night?  125 

Well,  Chloe  look'd  like  any  fright; 
Her  day  is  over  for  a  toast — 
She  'd  now  do  best  to  act  a  ghost. 
You  saw  our  Fanny;  envy  must  own 
She  figures  since  she  came  from  Boston:  130 

Good  company  improves  one's  air — 
I  think  the  troops  were  station'd  there. 
Poor  Ccelia  ventured  to  the  place: 
The  small-pox  quite  has  spoil'd  her  face; 
A  sad  affair,  we  all  confest,  135 

But  providence  knows  what  is  best. 
Poor  Dolly,  too,  that  writ  the  letter 
Of  love  to  Dick,  but  Dick  knew  better; 
A  secret  that — you  '11  not  disclose  it — 
There  's  not  a  person  living  knows  it.  140 

Sylvia  shone  out,  no  peacock  finer; 
I  wonder  what  the  fops  see  in  her: 
Perhaps  't  is  true  what  Harry  maintains — 
She  mends  on  intimate  acquaintance."  .... 

And  now  the  conversation  sporting  145 

From  scandal  turns  to  trying  fortune; 
Their  future  luck  the  fair  foresee 
In  dreams,  in  cards,  but  most  in  tea. 
Each  finds  of  love  some  future  trophy 


JOHN  T  RUM  BULL  95 


In  settlings  left  of  tea  or  coffee:  150 

There  fate  displays  its  book,  she  believes, 

And  lovers  swim  in  form  of  tea-leaves; 

Where  oblong  stalks  she  takes  for  beaux, 

And  squares  of  leaves  for  billet-doux; 

Gay  balls  in  parboil'd  fragments  rise,  155 

And  specks  for  kisses  greet  her  eyes. 

1773- 

M'FINGAL 

FROM 
CANTO   I 

When  Yankies,  skill'd  in  martial  rule, 

First  put  the  British  troops  to  school, 

Instructed  them  in  warlike  trade 

And  new  manoeuvres  of  parade, 

The  true  war-dance  of  Yankee  reels,  5 

And  manual  exercise  of  heels, 

Made  them  give  up,  like  saints  complete, 

The  arm  of  flesh  and  trust  the  feet, 

And  work,  like  Christians  undissembling 

Salvation  out  by  fear  and  trembling,  10 

Taught  Percy  fashionable  races, 

And  modern  modes  of  Chevy-Chases; 

From  Boston,  in  his  best  array, 

Great  'Squire  M'FiNGAL  took  his  way, 

And,  graced  with  ensigns  of  renown,  15 

Steer'd  homeward  to  his  native  town 

The  Town,  our  hero's  scene  of  action, 
Had  long  been  torn  by  feuds  of  faction; 
And  as  each  party's  strength  prevails, 
It  turn'd  up  different,  heads  or  tails;  20 

With  constant  rattling,  in  a  trice 
Show'd  various  sides  as  oft  as  dice. 
As  that  famed  weaver,  wife  t'  Ulysses. 
By  night  her  day's-work  pick'd  in  pieces. 
And  though  she  stoutly  did  bestir  her  25 

Its  finishing  was  ne  'er  the  nearer, 
So  did  this  town  with  ardent  zeal 
Weave  cobwebs  for  the  public  weal, 


96  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Which  when  completed,  or  before, 

A  second  vote  in  pieces  tore.  30 

They  met,  made  speeches  full  long-winded, 

Resolv'd,  protested,  and  rescinded, 

Addresses  sign'd,  then  chose  committees 

To  stop  all  drinking  of  Bohea  teas, 

With  winds  of  doctrine  veer'd  about,  35 

And  turn'd  all  whig  committees  out. 

Meanwhile  our  Hero,  as  their  head, 

In  pomp  the  tory  faction  led, 

Still  following,  as  the  'Squire  should  please, 

Successive  on,  like  files  of  geese.  40 

And  now  the  town  was  summon'd,  greeting, 
To  grand  parading  of  Town-meeting; 
A  show  that  strangers  might  appal, 
As  Rome's  grave  senate  did  the  Gaul. 
High  o'er  the  rout,  on  pulpit  stairs,  45 

Mid  den  of  thieves  in  house  of  prayers 
(That  house  which,  loth  a  rule  to  break, 
Serv'd  heaven  but  one  day  in  the  week, 
Open  the  rest  for  all  supplies 

Of  news  and  politics  and  lies),  50 

Stood  forth  the  Constable,  and  bore 
His  staff  like  Merc'ry's  wand  of  yore, 
Waved  potent  round,  the  peace  to  keep, 
As  that  laid  dead  men's  souls  to  sleep. 
Above  and  near  th'  hermetic  staff  55 

The  Moderator's  upper  half 
In  grandeur  o'er  the  cushion  bow'd, 
Like  Sol  half  seen  behind  a  cloud. 
Beneath  stood  voters  of  all  colours, 

Whigs,  Tories,  orators  and  brawlers,  60 

With  every  tongue  in  either  faction 
Prepared  like  minute-men  for  action, 
Where  truth  and  falsehood,  wrong  and  right, 
Drew  all  their  legions  forth  to  fight. 

With  equal  uproar  scarcely  rave  65 

Opposing  winds  in  ^Eolus'  cave; 
Such  dialogues  with  earnest  face 
Held  never  Balaam  with  his  ass. 
With  daring  zeal  and  courage  blest, 


JOHN  TRUMBULL 


Honorius  first  the  crowd  address'd;  70 

When  now  our  'Squire,  returning  late, 

Arrived  to  aid  the  grand  debate, 

With  strange,  sour  faces  sate  him  down, 

While  thus  the  orator  went  on 

"What  wonder,  then,  ere  this  was  over,  75 

That  she  should  make  her  children  suffer  ? 
She  first,  without  pretence  or  reason, 
Claim'd  right  whate'er  we  had  to  seize  on, 
And,  with  determin'd  resolution 

To  put  her  claims  in  execution,  80 

Sent  fire  and  sword  and  call'd  it  Lenity, 
Starv'd  us  and  christen'd  it  Humanity; 
For  she,  her  case  grown  desperater, 
Mistook  the  plainest  things  in  nature, 
Had  lost  all  use  of  eyes  or  wits,  85 

Took  slavery  for  the  bill  of  rights, 
Trembled  at  whigs  and  deem'd  them  foes, 
And  stopp'd  at  loyalty  her  nose, 
Styled  her  own  children  brats  and  catiffs, 
And  knew  us  not  from  th'  Indian  natives.  90 

What  though  with  supplicating  prayer 
We  begg'd  our  lives  and  goods  she  'd  spare  ? 
Not  vainer  vows  with  sillier  call 
Elijah's  prophets  raised  to  Baal; 

A  worshipp'd  stock  of  god  or  goddess  95 

Had  better  heard  and  understood  us. 
So  once  Egyptians  at  the  Nile 
Ador'd  their  guardian  crocodile, 
Who  heard  them  first  with  kindest  ear, 
And  ate  them  to  reward  their  prayer;  ice 

And  could  he  talk  as  kings  can  do, 
Had  made  as  gracious  speeches  too."  .... 
As  thus  he  spake,  our  'Squire  M'FiNGAL 
Gave  to  his  partisans  a  signal: 

Not  quicker  roll'd  the  waves  to  land  105 

When  Moses  waved  his  potent  wand, 
Nor  with  more  uproar,  than  the  Tories 
Set  up  a  general  rout  in  chorus, 

Laugh'd,  hiss'd,  hem'd,  murmur'd,  groan 'd  and  jecr'd; 
Honorius  now  could  scarce  be  heard.  no 


98  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Our  Muse  amid  th'  increasing  roar 

Could  not  distinguish  one  word  more, 

Though  she  sate  by,  in  firm  record 

To  take  in  short  hand  every  word, — 

As  ancient  Muses  wont,  to  whom  115 

Old  bards  for  depositions  come; 

Who  must  have  writ  them,  for  how  else 

Could  they  each  speech  verbatim  tell  's  ?  .  .  .  . 

So  let  it  be — for  now  our  'Squire 

No  longer  could  contain  his  ire,  120 

And,  rising  'midst  applauding  Tories, 

Thus  vented  wrath  upon  Honorius. 

Quoth  he,  "  'T  is  wondrous  what  strange  stuff 
Your  Whigs-heads  are  compounded  of, 
Which  force  of  logic  cannot  pierce,  125 

Nor  syllogistic  carte  and  tierce, 
Nor  weight  of  scripture  or  of  reason 
Suffice  to  make  the  least  impression. 
Not  heeding  what  ye  rais'd  contest  on, 
Ye  prate,  and  beg  or  steal  the  question;  130 

And  when  your  boasted  arguings  fail, 
Strait  leave  all  reas'ning  off,  to  rail. 
Have  not  our  High-church  Clergy  made  it 
Appear  from  Scriptures,  which  ye  credit, 
That  right  divine  from  heaven  was  lent  135 

To  kings,  that  is,  the  Parliament, 
Their  subjects  to  oppress  and  teaze, 
And  serve  the  devil  when  they  please  ? 
Did  not  they  write,  and  pray,  and  preach, 
And  torture  all  the  parts  of  speech,  140 

About  rebellion  make  a  pother, 
From  one  end  of  the  land  to  th'  other  ? 
And  yet  gain'd  fewer  proselyte  Whigs 
Than  old  St.  Anth'ny  'mongst  the  pigs, 
And  changed  not  half  so  many  vicious  145 

As  Austin  when  he  preach'd  to  fishes, 
Who  throng'd  to  hear,  the  legend  tells, 
Were  edified,  and  wagg'd  their  tails: 
But  scarce  you'd  prove  it,  if  you  tried, 
That  e'er  one  W7hig  was  edified."  IS6* 

1775- 


JOHN  T  RUM  BULL  99 


FROM 

CANTO  in 

Now  warm  with  ministerial  ire 

Fierce  sallied  forth  our  loyal  'Squire, 

And  on  his  striding  steps  attends 

His  desperate  clan  of  Tory  friends: 

When  sudden  met  his  wrathful  eye  5 

A  pole  ascending  through  the  sky, 

Which  numerous  throngs  of  whiggish  race 

Were  raising  in  the  market-place. 

Not  higher  school-boy's  kites  aspire, 

Or  royal  mast  or  country  spire,  10 

Like  spears  at  Bobdignagian  tilting, 

Or  Satan's  walking-staff  in  Milton; 

And  on  its  top  the  flag,  unfurl'd, 

Waved  triumph  o'er  the  gazing  world, 

Inscribed  with  inconsistent  types  15 

Of  Liberty  and  thirteen  stripes. 

Beneath,  the  crowd  without  delay 

The  dedication-rites  essay, 

And  gladly  pay,  in  antient  fashion, 

The  ceremonies  of  libation,  20 

While  briskly  to  each  patriot  lip 

Walks  eager  round  the  inspiring  flip — 

Delicious  draught,  whose  powers  inherit 

The  quintessence  of  public  spirit; 

Which  whoso  tastes  perceives  his  mind  25 

To  nobler  politics  refined, 

Or  roused  to  martial  controversy 

As  from  transforming  cups  of  Circe, 

Or  warm'd  with  Homer's  nectar'd  liquor 

That  fill'd  the  veins  of  gods  with  ichor.  30 

At  hand  for  new  supplies  in  store 

The  tavern  opes  its  friendly  door, 

Whence  to  and  fro  the  waiters  run 

Like  bucket-men  at  fires  in  town. 

Then  with  three  shouts  that  tore  the  sky  35 

T  is  consecrate  to  Liberty. 

To  guard  it  from  th'  attacks  of  Tories 

A  grand  Committee  cull'd  of  four  is, 


ioo  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Who  foremost  on  the  patriot  spot 

Had  brought  the  flip  and  paid  the  shot.  40 

By  this  M  TINGAL  with  his  train 
Advanced  upon  th'  adjacent  plain, 
And,  full  with  loyalty  possest, 
Pour'd  forth  the  zeal  that  fired  his  breast. 

"What  mad-brain'd  rebel  gave  commission  45 

To  raise  this  May-pole  of  sedition  ? — 
Like  Babel,  rear'd  by  bawling  throngs, 
With  like  confusion  too  of  tongues, 
To  point  at  heaven  and  summon  down 
The  thunders  of  the  British  crown.  50 

Say,  will  this  paltry  Pole  secure 
Your  forfeit  heads  from  Gage's  power  ? 
Attack'd  by  heroes  brave  and  crafty, 
Is  this  to  stand  your  ark  of  safety  ? 

Or  driven  by  Scottish  laird  and  laddie,  55 

Think  ye  to  rest  beneath  its  shadow  ? 
When  bombs  like  fiery  serpents  fly, 
And  balls  rush  hissing  through  the  sky, 
Will  this  vile  Pole,  devote  to  freedom, 
Save  like  the  Jewish  pole  in  Edom,  60 

Or,  like  the  brazen  snake  of  Moses, 
Cure  your  crackt  skulls  and  batter'd  noses  ?  .  .  .  . 

"Rise  then,  my  friends,  in  terror  rise, 
And  sweep  this  scandal  from  the  skies! 
You  '11  see  their  Dagon,  though  well  jointed,  65 

Will  shrink  before  the  Lord's  anointed, 
And  like  old  Jericho's  proud  wall 
Before  our  ram's  horns  prostrate  fall."  .... 

At  once  with  resolution  fatal 

Both  Whigs  and  Tories  rush'd  to  battle.  70 

Instead  of  weapons,  either  band 
Seized  on  such  arms  as  came  to  hand: 
And  as  famed  Ovid  paints  th'  adventures 
Of  wrangling  Lapithae  and  Centaurs, 

Who  at  their  feast,  by  Bacchus  led,  75 

Threw  bottles  at  each  other's  head, 
And,  these  arms  failing  in  their  scufiles, 
Attack'd  with  andirons,  tongs,  and  shovels; 
So  clubs  and  billets,  staves  and  stones 


JOHN  T  RUM  BULL  ioi 


Met  fierce,  encountering  every  sconce,  80 

And  cover'd  o'er  with  knobs  and  pain?         »*f 

Each  void  receptacle  for  brains. 

Their  clamours  rend  the  skies  around, 

The  hills  rebellow  to  the  sound, 

And  many  a  groan  increas'd  the  din  85 

From  batter'd  nose  and  broken  shin. 

M'FINGAL,  rising  at  the  word, 

Drew  forth  his  old  militia-sword; 

Thrice  cried  "King  George!"  as  erst  in  distress 

Knights  of  romance  invoked  a  mistress;  90 

And,  brandishing  the  blade  in  air, 

Struck  terror  through  th'  opposing  war. 

The  Whigs,  unsafe  within  the  wind 

Of  such  commotion,  shrunk  behind. 

With  whirling  steel  around  address'd,  95 

Fierce  through  their  thickest  throng  he  press'd 

(Who  roll'd  on  either  side  in  arch, 

Like  Red  Sea  waves  in  Israel's  march), 

And,  like  a  meteor  rushing  through, 

Struck  on  their  Pole  a  vengeful  blow.  100 

Around,  the  Whigs  of  clubs  and  stones 

Discharged  whole  vollies  in  platoons, 

That  o'er  in  whistling  fury  fly; 

But  not  a  foe  dares  venture  nigh. 

And  now  perhaps,  with  glory  crown'd,  105 

Our  'Squire  had  fell'd  the  pole  to  ground, 

Had  not  some  Pow'r,  a  whig  at  heart, 

Descended  down  and  took  their  part 

(Whether  't  were  Pallas,  Mars,  or  Iris 

'T  is  scarce  worth  while  to  make  inquiries);  no 

Who,  at  the  nick  of  time  alarming, 

Assumed  the  solemn  form  of  Chairman, 

Address'd  a  Whig,  in  every  scene 

The  stoutest  wrestler  on  the  green, 

And  pointed  where  the  spade  was  found  115 

Late  used  to  set  their  pole  in  ground, 

And  urged,  with  equal  arms  and  might 

To  dare  our  'Squire  to  single  fight. 

The  Whig  thus  arm'd,  untaught  to  yield, 

Advanced  tremendous  to  the  field;  120 


102  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Nor  did  M'FINGAL  shun  the  foe, 
;  But  stood  to  brave  the  desp'rate  blow, 
While  all  the  party  gazed,  suspended, 
To  see  the  deadly  combat  ended, 

And  Jove  in  equal  balance  weigh 'd  125 

The  sword  against  the  brandish'd  spade: 
He  weigh 'd;  but  lighter  than  a  dream 
The  sword  flew  up  and  kick'd  the  beam. 
Our  'Squire,  on  tiptoe  rising  fair, 

Lifts  high  a  noble  stroke  in  air,  130 

Which  hung  not,  but  like  dreadful  engines 
Descended  on  his  foe  in  vengeance; 
But  ah,  in  danger,  with  dishonor 
The  sword  perfidious  fails  its  owner: 

That  sword  which  oft  had  stood  its  ground  135 

By  huge  trainbands  encircled  round, 
And  on  the  bench,  with  blade  right  loyal, 
Had  won  the  day  at  many  a  trial, 
Of  stones  and  clubs  had  braved  th'  alarms, 
Shrunk  from  these  new  Vulcanian  arms.  140 

The  spade,  so  temper'd  from  the  sledge 
Nor  keen  nor  solid  harm'd  its  edge, 
Now  met  it,  from  his  arm  of  might, 
Descending  with  steep  force  to  smite; 

The  blade  snapp'd  short,  and  from  his  hand  145 

With  rust  embrown'd  the  glittering  sand. 
Swift  turn'd  M'FINGAL  at  the  view, 
And  call'd  to  aid  th'  attendant  crew; 
In  vain :  the  Tories  all  had  run 

When  scarce  the  fight  was  well  begun;  150 

Their  setting  wigs  he  saw  decreas'd 
Far  in  th'  horizon  tow'rd  the  west. 
Amazed  he  view'd  the  shameful  sight, 
And  saw  no  refuge  but  in  flight; 

But  age  unwieldy  check'd  his  pace,  155 

Though  fear  had  wing'd  his  flying  race — 
For  not  a  trifling  prize  at  stake, 
No  less  than  great  M'FINGAL'S  back. 
With  legs  and  arms  he  work'd  his  course, 
Like  rider  that  outgoes  his  horse,  160 

And  labor'd  hard  to  get  away  as 


JOHN  TRUMBULL  103 


Old  Satan  struggling  on  through  chaos; 

'Till,  looking  back,  he  spied  in  rear 

The  spade-arm 'd  chief  advanced  too  near, 

And  stopp'd  and  seized  a  stone  that  lay  165 

An  ancient  landmark  near  the  way; 

Nor  shall  we,  as  old  bards  have  done, 

Affirm  it  weigh'd  an  hundred  ton, 

But  such  a  stone  as  at  a  shift 

A  modern  might  suffice  to  lift,  17° 

Since  men,  to  credit  their  enigmas, 

Are  dwindled  down  to  dwarfs  and  pigmies, 

And  giants  exiled  with  their  cronies 

To  Brobdignags  and  Patagonias. 

But  while  our  Hero  turn'd  him  round  I7S 

And  tugg'd  to  raise  it  from  the  ground, 

The  fatal  spade  discharged  a  blow 

Tremendous  on  his  rear  below; 

His  bent  knee  fail'd,  and  void  of  strength 

Stretch'd  on  the  ground  his  manly  length 180 

Meanwhile  beside  the  pole  the  guard 
A  Bench  of  Justice  had  prepared, 
Where,  sitting  round  in  awful  sort, 
The  grand  Committee  hold  their  Court; 
While  all  the  crew  in  silent  awe  185 

Wait  from  their  lips  the  lore  of  law. 
Few  moments  with  deliberation 
They  hold  the  solemn  consultation, 
When  soon  in  judgment  all  agree, 

And  Clerk  proclaims  the  dread  decree:  190 

'That  'Squire  M'FiNGAL  having  grown 
The  vilest  Tory  in  the  town, 
And  now  in  full  examination 
Convicted  by  his  own  confession, 

Finding  no  tokens  of  repentance,  195 

This  Court  proceeds  to  render  sentence: 
That  first  the  Mob  a  slip-knot  single 
Tie  round  the  neck  of  said  M'FINGAL; 
And  in  due  form  do  tar  him  next 

And  feather,  as  the  law  directs;  aoc 

Then  through  the  town  attendant  ride  him 
In  cart  with  Constable  beside  him; 


104  AMERICAN  POEMS 

And,  having  held  him  up  to  shame, 
Bring  to  the  pole  from  whence  he  came." 

Forthwith  the  crowd  proceed  to  deck  205 

With  halter'd  noose  M'FINGAL'S  neck, 
While  he  in  peril  of  his  soul 
Stood  tied  half-hanging  to  the  pole; 
Then,  lifting  high  the  ponderous  jar, 

Pour'd  o'er  his  head  the  smoaking  tar:  210 

With  less  profusion  once  was  spread 
Oil  on  the  Jewish  monarch's  head, 
That  down  his  beard  and  vestments  ran, 
And  cover'd  all  his  outward  man. 

As  when  (so  Claudian  sings)  the  Gods  215 

And  earth-born  Giants  fell  at  odds, 
The  stout  Enceladus  in  malice 
Tore  mountains  up  to  throw  at  Pallas, 
And,  while  he  held  them  o'er  his  head, 
The  river  from  their  fountains  fed  220 

Pour'd  down  his  back  its  copious  tide, 
And  wore  its  channels  in  his  hide: 
So  from  the  high-raised  urn  the  torrents 
Spread  down  his  side  their  various  currents; 
His  flowing  wig,  as  next  the  brim,  225 

First  met  and  drank  the  sable  stream ; 
Adown  his  visage  stern  and  grave 
Roll'd  and  adhered  the  viscid  wave; 
With  arms  depending  as  he  stood, 

Each  cuff  capacious  holds  the  flood;  230 

From  nose  and  chin's  remotest  end 
The  tarry  icicles  descend; 
Till,  all  o'erspread,  with  colors  gay 
He  glitter'd  to  the  western  ray 

Like  sleet-bound  trees  in  wintry  skies.  235 

Or  Lapland  idol  carved  in  ice. 
And  now  the  feather-bag  display'd 
Is  waved  in  triumph  o'er  his  head, 
And  clouds  him  o'er  with  feathers  missive, 
And  down  upon  the  tar  adhesive:  ^40 

Not  Maia's  son,  with  wings  for  ears, 
Such  plumage  round  his  visage  wears. 


JOHN  TRUMBULL  105 


Nor  Milton's  six-wing'd  angel  gathers 

Such  superfluity  of  feathers. 

Now  all  complete  appears  our  'Squire,  245 

Like  Gorgon  or  Chimaera  dire; 

Nor  more  could  boast  on  Plato's  plan 

To  rank  among  the  race  of  man, 

Or  prove  his  claim  to  human  nature, 

As  a  two-legg'd,  unfeather'd  creature.  250 

Then  on  the  fatal  cart  in  state 
They  raised  our  grand  Duumvirate. 
And  as  at  Rome  a  like  committee 
Who  found  an  owl  within  their  city 

With  solemn  rites  and  grave  processions  255 

At  every  shrine  perform'd  lustrations, 
And,  least  infection  might  take  place 
From  such  grim  fowl  with  feather'd  face, 
All  Rome  attends  him  through  the  street 
In  triumph  to  his  country  seat;  260 

With  like  devotion  all  the  choir 

Paraded  round  our  awful  'Squire: 

In  front  the  martial  music  comes 

Of  horns  and  fiddles,  fifes  and  drums, 

With  jingling  sound  of  carriage  bells,  265 

And  treble  creak  of  rusted  wheels; 

Behind,  the  croud,  in  lengthen 'd  row, 

With  proud  procession  closed  the  show; 

And  at  fit  periods  every  throat 

Combined  in  universal  shout,  270 

And  hail'd  great  Liberty  in  chorus, 

Or  bawl'd  "Confusion  to  the  Tories  1" 

Not  louder  storm  the  welkin  braves 

From  clamors  of  conflicting  waves; 

Less  dire  in  Lybian  wilds  the  noise  275 

When  rav'ning  lions  lift  their  voice; 

Or  triumphs  at  town-meetings  made, 

On  passing  votes  to  regulate  trade. 

Thus  having  borne  them  round  the  town, 

Last  at  the  pole  they  set  them  down,  280 

And  to  the  tavern  take  their  way 

To  end  in  mirth  the  festal  day. 

1782. 


106  AMERICAN  POEMS 


DAVID  HUMPHREYS 

FROM 

THE  HAPPINESS  OF  AMERICA 

Thrice  happy  race!  how  blest  were  freedom's  heirs, 

Blest  if  they  knew  what  happiness  is  theirs, 

Blest  if  they  knew  to  them  alone  't  is  given 

To  know  no  sov'reign  but  the  law  and  Heaven! 

That  law  for  them  and  Albion's  realms  alone  5 

On  sacred  justice  elevates  her  throne, 

Regards  the  poor,  the  fatherless  protects, 

The  widow  shields,  the  proud  oppressor  checks. 

Blest  if  they  knew  beneath  umbrageous  trees 

To  prize  the  joys  of  innocence  and  ease,  10 

Of  peace,  of  health,  of  temp'rance,  toil,  and  rest, 

And  the  calm  sun-shine  of  the  conscious  breast. 

For  them  the  spring  his  annual  task  resumes, 

Invests  in  verdure  and  adorns  in  blooms 

Earth's  parent  lap  and  all  her  wanton  bow'rs  15 

In  foliage  fair  with  aromatic  flow'rs. 

Their  fanning  wings  the  zephyrs  gently  play, 

And  winnow  blossoms  from  each  floating  spray; 

In  bursting  buds  the  embryo  fruits  appear, 

The  hope  and  glory  of  the  rip'ning  year.  20 

The  mead  that  courts  the  scythe,  the  pastur'd  vale, 

And  garden'd  lawn  their  breathing  sweets  exhale; 

On  balmy  winds  a  cloud  of  fragrance  moves, 

And  floats  the  odours  of  a  thousand  groves; 

For  them  young  summer  sheds  a  brighter  day,  25 

Matures  the  germe  with  his  prolific  ray, 

With  prospects  cheers,  demands  more  stubborn  toil, 

And  pays  their  efforts  from  the  grateful  soil: 

The  lofty  maize  its  ears  luxurient  yields, 

The  yellow  harvests  gild  the  laughing  fields,  30 

Extend  o'er  all  th'  interminable  plain, 

And  wave  in  grandeur  like  the  boundless  main. 

For  them  the  flock  o'er  green  savannas  feeds, 

For  them  high-prancing  bound  the  playful  steeds, 

For  them  the  heifers  graze  sequester'd  dales,  35 

Or  pour  white  nectar  in  the  brimming  pails. 


DAVID  HUMPHREYS 


To  them,  what  time  the  hoary  frosts  draw  near, 

Ripe  autumn  brings  the  labours  of  the  year. 

To  nature's  sons  how  fair  th'  autumnal  even, 

The  fading  landscape  and  impurpled  heaven,  40 

As  from  their  fields  they  take  their  homeward  way, 

And  turn  to  catch  the  sun's  departing  ray! 

What  streaming  splendours  up  the  skies  are  roll'd, 

Whose  colours  beggar  Tyrian  dyes  and  gold! 

Till  night's  dun  curtains,  wide  o'er  all  display'd,  45 

Shroud  shad'wy  shapes  in  melancholy  shade. 

Then  doubling  clouds  the  wintry  skies  deform, 

And,  wrapt  in  vapour,  comes  the  roaring  storm, 

With  snows  surcharg'd  from  tops  of  mountains  sails, 

Loads  leafless  trees  and  fills  the  whiten'd  vales.  50 

Then  desolation  strips  the  faded  plains, 

Then  tyrant  death  o'er  vegetation  reigns; 

The  birds  of  Heav'n  to  other  climes  repair, 

And  deep'ning  glooms  invade  the  turbid  air. 

Nor  then  un  joyous  winter's  rigours  come,  55 

But  find  them  happy  and  content  with  home: 

Their  gran'ries  fill'd,  the  task  of  culture  past, 

Warm  at  their  fire  they  hear  the  howling  blast, 

With  patt'ring  rain  and  snow  or  driving  sleet, 

Rave  idly  loud  and  at  their  window  beat;  60 

Safe  from  its  rage,  regardless  of  its  roar, 

In  vain  the  tempest  rattles  at  the  door. 

The  tame  brutes  shelter'd,  and  the  feather'd  brood, 

From  them,  mpre  provident,  demand  their  food: 

'T  is  then  the  time  from  hoarding  cribs  to  feed  65 

The  ox  laborious  and  the  noble  steed; 

'T  is  then  the  time  to  tend  the  bleating  fold, 

To  strow  with  litter  and  to  fence  from  cold. 

The  cattle  fed,  the  fuel  pil'd  within, 

At  setting  day  the  blissful  hours  begin:  70 

'T  is  then,  sole  owner  of  his  little  cot, 

The  farmer  feels  his  independent  lot, 

Hears  with  the  crackling  blaze  that  lights  the  wall 

The  voice  of  gladness  and  of  nature  call, 

Beholds  his  children  play,  their  mother  smile,  75 

And  tastes  with  them  the  fruit  of  summer's  toil. 

1786. 


IC8  AMERICAN  POEMS 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 

FROM 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  CANAAN 

Now  near  the  stream  approach'd  the  sounding  war, 
When  fierce  to  combat  roll'd  a  splendid  car: 
There  giant  Zedeck  rose  in  dreadful  view; 
Two  furious  steeds  the  mighty  monarch  drew; 
With  wild  impetuous  rage  they  foam'd  along,  5 

And  pale  before  them  fled  the  parting  throng. 
From  Joshua's  course  he  saw  his  bands  retire; 
His  reddening  aspect  flash'd  a  gloomy  fire; 
With  huge  hoarse  voice  the  furious  hero  cried, 
While  the  plains  murmur'd  and  the  groves  replied:  10 

'  Whatever  wretch  from  this  bright  combat  flies, 
By  the  just  gods,  the  impious  dastard  dies! 
Nor  hope  to  'scape  the  keen  avenging  blade 
In  the  still  cot  or  in  the  lonely  shade: 

Soon  shall  this  sword  with  victory  crown'd  return,  15 

And  wrath  and  vengeance  all  your  dwellings  burn; 
Your  bodies  limb  from  limb  this  arm  shall  tear, 
Nor  sons  nor  wives  nor  sires  nor  infants  spare, 
But  bid  the  hungry  hawks  your  race  devour 
And  call  grim  wolves  to  feast  in  floods  of  gore!"  20 

He  spoke:  astonish'd,  some  more  nimbly  flew, 
And  some  to  conflict  with  fresh  ardour  drew; 
Despair  once  more  the  growing  flight  repell'd, 
And  gave  new  horrors  to  the  gloomy  field. 

Meantime  on  Joshua  drove  the  sounding  car,  25 

And  burst  impetuous  through  the  thickest  war. 
Rough,  heavy,  dreadful,  by  the  giant  thrown, 
Flew  the  vast  fragment  of  a  craggy  stone; 
Scarce  'scap'd  the  wary  Chief,  with  sudden  bound, 
While  the  broad  ruin  plow'd  the  crumbling  ground.  30 

A  javelin  then  the  monarch's  hand  impell'd 
That  sung  and  trembled  'gainst  the  Hero's  shield; 
Swift  o'er  his  head  a  second  hissing  flies, 
And  a  pierc'd  warrior  groans  and  falls  and  dies. 
At  once  great  Joshua  rais'd  his  reeking  sword,  33 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  109 


And  with  deep  wounds  the  maddening  coursers  gor'd: 
Through  cleaving  ranks  the  coursers  backward  flew, 
And  swift  from  sight  the  helpless  monarch  drew. 
To  the  high  shore  impendent  o'er  the  flood 
They  rush'd  as  whirlwinds  sweep  the  rending  wood;  40 

To  turn  they  tried,  with  short  and  sudden  wheel, 
But  tried  in  vain — the  sounding  chariot  fell. 
Prone  down  the  lofty  bank  the  steeds  pursued, 
Where  sharp  and  ragged  rocks  beneath  were  strew'd; 
All  shrill  the  giant's  striking  mail  resounds;  45 

With  clattering  crash  the  cracking  car  rebounds; 
White  o'er  his  lifeless  head  the  waters  roar, 
Lost  in  the  stream  and  doom'd  to  rise  no  more. 
As  when  the  south's  fierce  blasts  the  main  deform 
And  roll  the  pealful  onset  of  the  storm;  50 

Hung  are  the  heavens  with  night;  the  world  around 
Deep-murmuring  trembles  to  the  solemn  sound ; 
Full  on  dread  Longa's  wild-resounding  shore 
Hills,  wav'd  o'er  hills,  ascend  and  burst  and  roar; 
Safe  in  his  cot  the  hoary  sailor  hears,  55 

Or  drops  for  fancied  wrecks  unbidden  tears: 
A  boundless  shout  from  Israel's  raptur'd  train 
Rent  the  broad  skies  and  shook  the  dreadful  plain; 
For  now,  their  champion,  trust,  and  glory  loot, 
From  Joshua's  vengeance  flew  sad  Salem's  host;  60 

Before  him  nought  avail'd  the  shields  and  spears, 
But  chiefs  and  foaming  steeds  and  rattling  cars, 
Ranks  urging  ranks,  squadrons  o'er  squadrons  borne, 
Down  the  bank  plung'd,  the  bank  behind  them  torne, 
Sunk  with  a  rushing  sound;  great  Joshua's  arm,  65 

Uplifted,  imminent  impell'd  the  storm. 
Alert  he  bounded  on  the  yielding  sand, 
And  scatter'd  ruin  from  his  red  right  hand. 
The  white  waves  foam'd  around  his  midway  side 
As  fierce  he  thunder'd  thro'  the  rushing  tide.  70 

Two  blooming  youths  he  dash'd  against  the  rock 
Where  Zedeck's  chariot  felt  the  fatal  shock; 
Their  gushing  blood  ran  purple  thro'  the  wave, 
And  thousands  with  them  found  a  watery  grave. 
177 1->,'4.  1785- 


no  AMERICAN  POEMS 


GREENFIELD  HILL 

FROM 
PART   II 


Fair  Verna,  loveliest  village  of  the  west, 

Of  every  joy  and  every  charm  possess'd, 

How  pleas'd  amid  thy  varied  walks  I  rove, 

Sweet,  cheerful  walks  of  innocence  and  love, 

And  o'er  thy  smiling  prospects  cast  my  eyes  5 

And  see  the  seats  of  peace  and  pleasure  rise, 

And  hear  the  voice  of  Industry  resound, 

And  mark  the  smile  of  Competence  around. 

Hail,  happy  village!  O'er  thy  cheerful  lawns, 

With  earliest  beauty,  spring  delighted  dawns:  10 

The  northward  sun  begins  his  vernal  smile, 

The  spring-bird  carols  o'er  the  cressy  rill; 

The  shower  that  patters  in  the  ruffled  stream, 

The  ploughboy's  voice  that  chides  the  lingering  team, 

The  bee,  industrious,  with  his  busy  song,  15 

The  woodman's  axe  the  distant  groves  among, 

The  waggon  rattling  down  the  rugged  steep, 

The  light  wind  lulling  every  care  to  sleep, 

All  these,  with  mingled  music,  from  below 

Deceive  intruding  sorrow  as  I  go.  20 

How  pleas'd  fond  Recollection,  with  a  smile, 
Surveys  the  varied  round  of  wintery  toil; 
How  pleas'd,  amid  the  flowers  that  scent  the  plain, 
Recalls  the  vanish'd  frost  and  sleeted  rain, 
The  chilling  damp,  the  ice-endangering  street,  25 

And  treacherous  earth  that  slump'd  beneath  the  feet. 

Yet  even  stern  winter's  glooms  could  joy  inspire: 
Then  social  circles  grac'd  the  nutwood  fire; 
The  axe  resounded  at  the  sunny  door; 

The  swain,  industrious,  trimm'd  his  flaxen  store,  30 

Or  thresh'd,  with  vigorous  flail,  the  bounding  wheat, 
His  poultry  round  him  pilfering  for  their  meat, 
Or  slid  his  firewood  on  the  creaking  snow, 
Or  bore  his  produce  to  the  main  below, 
Or  o'er  his  rich  returns  exulting  laugh'd,  35 

Or  pledg'd  the  healthful  orchard's  sparkling  draught; 
While,  on  his  board  for  friends  and  neighbours  spread, 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  in 

The  turkey  smoak'd  his  busy  housewife  fed, 

And  Hospitality  look'd  smiling  round, 

And  Leisure  told  his  tale  with  gleeful  sound 40 

But  now  the  wintery  glooms  are  vanish 'd  all: 
The  lingering  drift  behind  the  shady  wall, 
The  dark-brown  spots  that  patch 'd  the  snowy  field, 
The  surly  frost  that  every  bud  conceal'd, 
The  russet  veil,  the  way  with  slime  o'erspread,  45 

And  all  the  saddening  scenes  of  March  are  fled. 

Sweet-smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  hills, 
How  green  thy  groves,  how  pure  thy  glassy  rills! 
With  what  new  joy  I  walk  thy  verdant  streets, 
How  often  pause  to  breathe  thy  gale  of  sweets,  50 

To  mark  thy  well-built  walls,  thy  budding  fields, 
And  every  charm  that  rural  nature  yields, 
And  every  joy  to  Competence  allied, 
And  every  good  that  Virtue  gains  from  Pride. 
No  griping  landlord  here  alarms  the  door,  55 

To  halve  for  rent  the  poor  man's  little  store. 
No  haughty  owner  drives  the  humble  swain 
To  some  far  refuge  from  his  dread  domain, 
Nor  wastes  upon  his  robe  of  useless  pride 
The  wealth  which  shivering  thousands  want  beside,  60 

Nor  in  one  palace  sinks  a  hundred  cots, 
Nor  in  one  manor  drowns  a  thousand  lots, 
Nor  on  one  table,  spread  for  death  and  pain, 
Devours  what  would  a  village  well  sustain 

Beside  yon  church  that  beams  a  modest  ray,  65 

With  tidy  neatness  reputably  gay, 
When,  mild  and  fair  as  Eden's  seventh-day  light, 
In  silver  silence  shines  the  Sabbath  bright, 
In  neat  attire  the  village  housholds  come 
And  learn  the  path-way  to  the  eternal  home.  70 

Hail,  solemn  ordinance  worthy  of  the  SKIES, 
Whence  thousand  richest  blessings  daily  rise: 
Peace,  order,  cleanliness,  and  manners  sweet, 
A  sober  mind,  to  rule  submission  meet, 

Enlarging  knowledge,  life  from  guilt  refin'd,  75 

And  love  to  God,  and  friendship  to  mankind. 
In  the  clear  splendour  of  thy  vernal  morn, 
New-quicken 'd  man  to  light  and  life  is  born; 


IT2  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  desert  of  the  mind  with  virtue  blooms, 

It's  flowers  unfold,  it's  fruits  exhale  perfumes;  80 

Proud  guilt  dissolves  beneath  the  searching  ray, 

And  low  debasement  trembling  creeps  away; 

Vice  bites  the  dust,  foul  Error  seeks  her  den, 

And  God  descending  dwells  anew  with  men. 

Where  yonder  humbler  spire  salutes  the  eye,  85 

It's  vane  slow  turning  in  the  liquid  sky, 
Where  in  light  gambols  healthy  striplings  sport, 
Ambitious  learning  builds  her  outer  court. 
A  grave  preceptor  there  her  usher  stands, 
And  rules  without  a  rod  her  little  bands.  90 

Some  half-grown  sprigs  of  learning  grac'd  his  brow: 
Little  he  knew,  though  much  he  wish'd  to  know; 
Inchanted  hung  o'er  Virgil's  honey'd  lay, 
And  smil'd  to  see  desipient  Horace  play; 
Glean'd  scraps  of  Greek,  and,  curious,  trac'd  afar  95 

Through  Pope's  clear  glass  the  bright  Maeonian  star. 
Yet  oft  his  students  at  his  wisdom  star'd, 
For  many  a  student  to  his  side  repair'd; 
Surpriz'd  they  heard  him  Dilworth's  knots  untie, 
And  tell  what  lands  beyond  the  Altantic  lie.  100 

Many  his  faults,  his  virtues  small  and  few; 
Some  little  good  he  did  or  strove  to  do: 
Laborious  still,  he  taught  the  early  mind, 
And  urg'd  to  manners  meek  and  thoughts  refin'd; 
Truth  he  impress'd,  and  every  virtue  prais'd,  105 

While  infant  eyes  in  wondering  silence  gaz'd; 
The  worth  of  time  would  day  by  day  unfold, 
And  tell  them  every  hour  was  made  of  gold; 
Brown  Industry  he  lov'd,  and  oft  declar'd 
How  hardy  Sloth  in  life's  sad  evening  far'd.  no 

FROM 

PART  IV 

Ah  me,  while  up  the  long,  long  vale  of  time 

Reflection  wanders  towards  th'  eternal  vast, 

How  starts  the  eye  at  many  a  change  sublime, 

Unbosom'd  dimly  by  the  ages  pass'd. 

What  Mausoleums  crowd  the  mournful  waste,  5 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  113 

The  tombs  of  empires  fallen  and  nations  gone: 

Each,  once  inscrib'd  in  gold  with  "AYE  TO  LAST," 

Sate  as  a  queen,  proclaim 'd  the  world  her  own, 

And  proudly  cried,  "By  me  no  sorrows  shall  be  known." 

Soon  fleets  the  sunbright  Form  by  man  ador'd:  10 

Soon  fell  the  Head  of  gold,  to  Time  a  prey; 

The  Arms,  the  Trunk  his  cankering  tooth  devour'd, 

And  whirlwinds  blew  the  Iron  dust  away. 

Where  dwelt  imperial  Timur  ? — far  astray 

Some  lonely-musing  pilgrim  now  enquires;  15 

And,  rack'd  by  storms  and  hastening  to  decay, 

Mohammed's  Mosque  foresees  it's  final  fires; 

And  Rome's  more  lordly  Temple  day  by  day  expires. 

As  o'er  proud  Asian  realms  the  traveller  winds, 

His  manly  spirit  hush'd  by  terror  falls,  20 

When  some  deceased  town's  lost  site  he  finds, 

Where  ruin  wild  his  pondering  eye  appals, 

Where  silence  swims  along  the  moulder'd  walls 

And  broods  upon  departed  Grandeur's  tomb. 

Through  the  lone  hollow  aisles  sad  Echo  calls,  25 

At  each  slow  step;  deep  sighs  the  breathing  gloom, 

And  weeping  fields  around  bewail  their  Empress'  doom. 

Where  o'er  an  hundred  realms  the  throne  uprose, 

The  screech-owl  nests,  the  panther  builds  his  home; 

Sleep  the  dull  newts,  the  lazy  adders  doze,  30 

Where  pomp  and  luxury  danc'd  the  golden  room. 

Low  lies  in  dust  the  sky-resembled  dome; 

Tall  grass  around  the  broken  column  waves; 

And  brambles  climb  and  lonely  thistles  bloom; 

The  moulder'd  arch  the  weedy  streamlet  laves,  35 

And  low  resound,  beneath,  unnumber'd  sunken  graves. 

Soon  fleets  the  sun-bright  Form  by  man  ador'd, 

And  soon  man's  daemon  chiefs  from  memory  fade. 

In  musty  volume  now  must  be  explor'd 

Where  dwelt  imperial  nations  long  decay'd.  40 

The  brightest  meteors  angry  clouds  invade, 

And  where  the  wonders  glitter'd  none  explain. 

Where  Carthage  with  proud  hand  the  trident  sway'd, 


II4  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Now  mud-wall'd  cots  sit  sullen  on  the  plain, 

And  wandering,  fierce,  and  wild,  sequester'd  Arabs  reign.    45 

In  thee,  O  Albion,  queen  of  nations,  live 

Whatever  splendours  earth's  wide  realms  have  known: 

In  thee  proud  Persia  sees  her  pomp  revive, 

And  Greece  her  arts,  and  Rome  her  lordly  throne; 

By  every  wind  thy  Tyrian  fleets  are  blown;  5° 

Supreme  on  Fame's  dread  roll  thy  heroes  stand; 

All  ocean's  realms  thy  naval  scepter  own; 

Of  bards,  of  sages,  how  august  thy  band; 

And  one  rich  Eden  blooms  around  thy  garden'd  land. 

But  O  how  vast  thy  crimes !     Through  heaven's  great  year     55 

When  few  centurial  suns  have  trac'd  their  way, 

When  southern  Europe,  worn  by  feuds  severe, 

Weak,  doating,  fallen,  has  bow'd  to  Russian  sway, 

And  setting  Glory  beam'd  her  farewell  ray, 

To  wastes,  perchance,  thy  brilliant  fields  shall  turn,  60 

In  dust  thy  temples,  towers,  and  towns  decay, 

The  forest  howl  where  London's  turrets  burn, 

And  all  thy  garlands  deck  thy  sad  funereal  urn. 

Some  land  scarce  glimmering  in  the  light  of  fame, 

Scepter'd  with  arts  and  arms,  if  I  divine,  65 

Some  unknown  wild,  some  shore  without  a  name, 

In  all  thy  pomp  shall  then  majestic  shine. 

As  silver-headed  Time's  slow  years  decline, 

Not  ruins  only  meet  th'  enquiring  eye: 

Where  round  yon  mouldering  oak  vain  brambles  twine,         70 

The  filial  stem,  already  towering  high, 

Erelong  shall  stretch  his  arms  and  nod  in  yonder  sky. 

Where  late  resounded  the  wild  woodland  roar, 

Now  heaves  the  palace,  now  the  temple  smiles; 

Where  frown'd  the  rude  rock  and  the  desert  shore,  75 

Now  pleasure  sports,  and  business  want  beguiles, 

And  Commerce  wings  her  flight  to  thousand  isles; 

Culture  walks  forth;  gay  laugh  the  loaded  fields, 

And  jocund  Labour  plays  his  harmless  wiles; 

Glad  Science  brightens,  Art  her  mansion  builds,  80 

And  Peace  uplifts  her  wand,  and  HEAVEN  his  blessing  yields. 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  115 


O'er  these  sweet  fields,  so  lovely  now  and  gay, 

Where  modest  Nature  finds  each  want  supplied, 

Where  home-born  Happiness  delights  to  play, 

And  counts  her  little  flock  with  houshold  pride,  85 

Long  frown'd,  from  age  to  age,  a  forest  wide: 

Here  hung  the  slumbering  bat;   the  serpent  dire 

Nested  his  brood  and  drank  th'  impoison'd  tide; 

Wolves  peal'd  the  dark,  drear  night  in  hideous  choir, 

Nor  shrunk  th'  unmeasured  howl  from  Sol's  terrific  fire.         90 

No  charming  cot  imbank'd  the  pebbly  stream, 

No  mansion  tower'd  nor  garden  teem'd  with  good, 

No  lawn  expanded  to  the  April  beam, 

Nor  mellow  harvest  hung  it's  bending  load, 

Nor  science  dawn'd,  nor  life  with  beauty  glow'd,  95 

Nor  temple  whiten'd  in  th'  enchanting  dell: 

In  clusters  wild  the  sluggish  wigwam  stood, 

And,  borne  in  snaky  paths,  the  Indian  fell 

Now  aim'd  the  death  unseen,  now  scream 'd  the  tyger-yell. 

Even  now,  perhaps,  on  human  dust  I  tread,  100 

Pondering  with  solemn  pause  the  wrecks  of  time: 

Here  sleeps,  perchance,  among  the  vulgar  dead, 

Some  Chief,  the  lofty  theme  of  Indian  rhyme, 

Who  lov'd  Ambition's  cloudy  steep  to  climb, 

And  smil'd  deaths,  dangers,  rivals  to  engage;  105 

Who  rous'd  his  followers'  souls  to  deeds  sublime, 

Kindling  to  furnace  heat  vindictive  rage, 

And  soar'd  Caesarean  heights,  the  Phoenix  of  his  age. 

In  yon  small  field,  that  dimly  steals  from  sight 

(From  yon  small  field  these  meditations  grow),  no 

Turning  the  sluggish  soil  from  morn  to  night, 

The  plodding  hind  laborious  drives  his  plough. 

Nor  dreams  a  nation  sleeps  his  foot  below: 

There,  undisturbed  by  the  roaring  wave, 

Releas'd  from  war  and  far  from  deadly  foe,  115 

Lies  down  in  endless  rest  a  nation  brave, 

And  trains  in  tempests  born  there  find  a  quiet  grave. 

1787-94-  '794. 


n6  AMERICAN  POEMS 

JOEL  BARLOW 

THE  VISION  OF  COLUMBUS 

FROM 
BOOK  I 

Long  had  the  Sage,  the  first  who  dar'd  to  brave 

The  unknown  dangers  of  the  western  wave, 

Who  taught  mankind  where  future  empires  lay 

In  these  fair  confines  of  descending  day, 

With  cares  o'erwhelm'd,  in  life's  distressing  gloom,  5 

Wish'd  from  a  thankless  world  a  peaceful  tomb; 

While  kings  and  nations,  envious  of  his  name, 

Enjoy'd  his  labours  and  usurp'd  his  fame, 

And  gave  the  chief,  from  promis'd  empire  hurl'd, 

Chains  for  a  crown,  a  prison  for  a  world.  10 

Now  night  and  silence  held  their  lonely  reign, 
The  half-orb 'd  moon  declining  to  the  main; 
Descending  clouds,  o'er  varying  ether  driven, 
Obscur'd  the  stars,  and  shut  the  eye  from  heaven; 
Cold  mists  through  op'ning  grates  the  cell  invade,  15 

And  deathlike  terrors  haunt  the  midnight  shade; 
When  from  a  visionary,  short  repose, 
That  rais'd  new  cares  and  temper 'd  keener  woes, 
Columbus  woke,  and  to  the  walls  address'd 
The  deep-felt  sorrows  of  his  manly  breast.  20 

"Here  lies  the  purchase,  here  the  wretched  spoil, 
Of  painful  years  and  persevering  toil: 
For  these  dread  walks,  this  hideous  haunt  of  pain, 
I  trac'd  new  regions  o'er  the  pathless  main, 
Dar'd  all  the  dangers  of  the  dreary  wave,  25 

Hung  o'er  its  clefts  and  topp'd  the  surging  grave, 
Saw  billowy  seas  in  swelling  mountains  roll, 
And  bursting  thunders  rock  the  reddening  pole, 
Death  rear  his  front  in  every  dreadful  form, 
Gape  from  beneath  and  blacken  in  the  storm;  30 

Till,  tost  far  onward  to  the  skirts  of  day, 
Where  milder  suns  dispens'd  a  smiling  ray, 
Through  brighter  skies  my  happier  sails  descry'd 
The  golden  banks  that  bound  the  western  tide, 
And  gave  th'  admiring  world  that  bounteous  shore,  35 

Their  wealth  to  nations  and  to  kings  their  power. 


JOEL  BARLOW  117 


"Oh  land  of  wonders,  dear,  delusive  coast, 
To  these  fond  aged  eyes  for  ever  lost! 
No  more  thy  flowery  vales  I  travel  o'er, 
For  me  thy  mountains  rear  the  head  no  more,  40 

For  me  thy  rocks  no  sparkling  gems  unfold, 
Or  streams  luxuriant  wear  their  paths  in  gold: 
From  realms  of  promis'd  peace  for  ever  borne, 
I  hail  dread  anguish,  and  in  secret  mourn/ 

"But  dangers  past,  a  world  explor'd  in  vain,  45 

And  foes  triumphant  shew  but  half  my  pain. 
Dissembling  friends,  each  earlier  joy  who  gave, 
And  fir'd  my  youth  the  storms  of  fate  to  brave, 
Swarm'd  in  the  sunshine  of  my  happier  days, 
Pursu'd  the  fortune  and  partook  the  praise,  50 

Bore  in  my  doubtful  cause  a  two-fold  part, 
The  garb  of  friendship  and  the  viper's  heart, 
Now  pass  my  cell  with  smiles  of  sour  disdain, 
Insult  my  woes  and  triumph  in  my  pain. 

"One  gentle  guardian  Heav'n  indulgent  gave,  55 

And  now  that  guardian  slumbers  in  the  grave. 
Hear  from  above,  thou  dear,  departed  Shade! 
As  once  my  joys,  my  present  sorrows  aid: 
Burst  my  full  heart,  afford  that  last  relief, 

Breathe  back  my  sighs  and  reinspire  my  grief  I  60 

Still  in  my  sight  thy  royal  form  appears, 
Reproves  my  silence  and  demands  my  tears. 
On  that  blest  hour  my  soul  delights  to  dwell 
When  thy  protection  bade  the  canvass  swell, 
When  kings  and  courtiers  found  their  factions  vain,  65 

Blind  Superstition  shrunk  beneath  her  chain, 
The  sun's  glad  beam  led  on  the  circling  way, 
And  isles  rose  beauteous  in  the  western  day. 
But  o'er  those  silv'ry  shores,  that  new  domain, 
What  crouds  of  tyrants  fix  their  horrid  reign  I  70 

Again  bold  Freedom  seeks  her  kindred  skies, 
Truth  leaves  the  world,  and  Isabella  dies. 
Oh,  lend  thy  friendly  shroud  to  veil  my  sight, 
That  these  pain'd  eyes  may  dread  no  more  the  light! 
These  welcome  shades  shall  close  my  instant  doom,  75 

And  this  drear  mansion  moulder  to  a  tomb." 

Thus  mourn'd  the  hapless  man.     A  thundering  sound 


Il8  AMERICAN  POEMS 


RolFd  round  the  shuddering  walls  and  shook  the  ground; 

O'er  all  the  dome,  where  solemn  arches  bend, 

The  roofs  unfold  and  streams  of  light  descend;  80 

The  growing  splendor  filPd  th'  astonish'd  room, 

And  gales  etherial  breath'd  a  glad  perfume. 

Mild  in  the  midst  a  radiant  seraph  shone, 

Rob'd  in  the  vestments  of  the  rising  sun; 

Tall  rose  his  stature,  youth's  primeval  grace  85 

Adorn'd  his  limbs  and  brighten'd  in  his  face; 

His  closing  wings,  in  golden  plumage  drest, 

With  gentle  sweep  came  folding  o'er  his  breast; 

His  locks  in  rolling  ringlets  glittering  hung, 

And  sounds  melodious  mov'd  his  heav'nly  tongue.  90 

"Rise,  trembling  Chief;  to  scenes  of  rapture  rise; 
This  voice  awaits  thee  from  th'  approving  skies. 
Thy  just  complaints,  in  God's  own  presence  known, 
Have  call'd  compassion  from  his  bounteous  throne. 
Assume  no  more  the  deep  desponding  strain  95 

Nor  count  thy  toils  nor  deem  thy  virtues  vain. 
Tho'  faithless  men  thy  injur'd  worth  despise, 
T  is  thus  they  treat  the  blessings  of  the  skies: 
For  look  thro'  nature,  Heav'n's  own  conduct  trace; 
What  power  divine  sustains  th'  unthankful  race!  100 

From  that  great  source,  that  life-inspiring  soul, 
Suns  drew  their  light  and  systems  learn'd  to  roll, 
Time  walk'd  the  silent  round,  and  life  began, 
And  God's  fair  image  stamp'd  the  mind  of  man; 
His  cares,  his  bounties  fill  the  realms  of  space,  105 

And  shine  superior  in  thy  favour'd  race; 
Men  speak  their  wants,  th'  all-bounteous  hand  supplies, 
And  gives  the  good  that  mortals  dare  despise. 
In  these  dark  vales  where  blinded  faction  sways, 
Wealth,  pride,  and  conquest  claim  the  palm  of  praise,  no 

Aw'd  into  slaves  while  grov'ling  millions  groan 
And  blood-stain'd  steps  lead  upwards  to  a  throne. 
Far  other  wreaths  thy  virtuous  temples  claim, 
Far  nobler  honours  build  thy  sacred  name; 

Be  thine  the  joys  immortal  minds  that  grace,  115 

And  thine  the  toils  that  bless  a  kindred  race. 

"Now  raise  thy  ravish'd  soul  to  scenes  more  bright, 


JOEL  BARLOW  II9 


The  vision'd  ages  rising  on  thy  sight; 

For,  wing'd  with  speed,  from  worlds  of  light  I  came, 

To  sooth  thy  grief  and  show  thy  distant  fame.  1 20 

As  that  great  Seer  whose  animating  rod 

Taught  Israel's  sons  the  wonder-working  God, 

Who  led  thro'  dreary  wastes  the  murm'ring  band 

To  the  rich  confines  of  the  promis'd  land, 

Oppress'd  with  years  from  Pisgah's  beauteous  height  1 25 

O'er  boundless  regions  cast  the  raptur'd  sight, 

The  bliss  of  unborn  nations  warm'd  his  breast, 

Repaid  his  toils  and  sooth 'd  his  soul  to  rest: 

Thus  o'er  thy  subject  wave  shalt  thou  behold 

Far  happier  realms  their  future  charms  unfold,  130 

In  nobler  pomp  another  Pisgah  rise, 

Beneath  whose  foot  thy  new-found  Canaan  lies; 
There,  rapt  in  vision,  hail  the  distant  clime, 
And  taste  the  blessings  of  remotest  time." 

The  Seraph  spoke;  and  now  before  them  lay  135 

(The  doors  unbarr'd)  a  steep  ascending  way, 
That  through  disparting  shades  arose  on  high, 
Reach'd  o'er  the  hills  and  lengthen'd  up  the  sky, 
Show'd  a  clear  summit  rich  with  rising  flowers, 
That  breathe  their  odours  through  celestial  bowers;  140 

O'er  proud  Hispanian  spires  it  looks  sublime, 
Subjects  the  Alps  and  levels  all  the  clime. 
Led  by  the  Power,  Columbus  gain'd  the  height; 
A  touch  from  heav'n  sublim'd  his  mortal  sight, 
And  calm  beneath  them  flow'd  the  western  main,  145 

Far  stretch'd,  immense,  a  sky-encircled  plain; 
No  sail,  no  isle,  no  cloud  invests  the  bound, 
Nor  billowy  surge  disturbs  th'  unvaried  round, 
Till  deep  in  distant  heav'ns  the  sun's  dim  ray 
Topp'd  unknown  cliffs  and  call'd  them  up  to  day.  150 

Slow  glimmering  into  sight  wide  regions  drew, 
And  rose  and  brighten'd  on  th'  expanding  view; 
Fair  sweep  the  waves,  the  lessening  ocean  smiles, 
And  breathes  the  fragrance  of  a  thousand  isles; 
Near  and  more  near  the  long-drawn  coasts  arise,  155 

Bays  stretch  their  arms,  and  mountains  lift  the  skies, 
The  lakes,  unfolding,  point  the  streams  their  way, 


I20  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  plains,  the  hills,  their  spreading  skirts  display, 

The  vales  draw  forth,  high  walk  th'  approaching  groves, 

And  all  the  majesty  of  nature  moves.  160 

O'er  the  wild  climes  his  eyes  delighted  rove, 
Where  lands  extend  and  glittering  waters  move; 
He  saw  through  central  realms  the  winding  shore 
Spread  the  deep  Gulph  his  sail  had  trac'd  before, 
The  Darien  isthmus  meet  the  raging  tide,  165 

Join  distant  lands  and  neighb'ring  seas  divide, 
On  either  side  the  shores  unbounded  bend, 
Push  wide  their  waves  and  to  the  poles  ascend, 
While  two  great  continents  united  rise, 
Broad  as  the  main  and  lengthen'd  with  the  skies.  170 

FROM 

BOOK   V 

Now  where  the  sheeted  flames  thro'  Charlestown  roar, 

And  lashing  waves  hiss  round  the  burning  shore, 

Thro'  the  deep  folding  fires  dread  Bunker's  height 

Thunders  o'er  all  and  shows  a  field  of  fight. 

Like  shad'wy  phantoms  in  an  evening  grove  5 

To  the  dark  strife  the  closing  squadrons  move: 

They  join,  they  break,  they  thicken,  thro'  the  air, 

And  blazing  batteries  burst  along  the  war; 

Now  wrapp'd  in  reddening  smoke,  now  dim  in  sight, 

They  sweep  the  hill  or  wing  the  downward  flight;  10 

Here,  wheel'd  and  wedg'd,  Britannia's  veterans  turn, 

And  the  long  lightnings  from  their  musquets  burn; 

There  scattering  strive  the  thin  colonial  train, 

And  broken  squadrons  still  the  field  maintain; 

Britons  in  fresh  battalions  rise  the  height,  15 

And  with  increasing  vollies  give  the  fight. 

Till,  smear'd  with  clouds  of  dust  and  bath'd  in  gore, 

As  growing  foes  their  rais'd  artillery  pour, 

Columbia's  host  moves  o'er  the  field  afar, 

And  saves  by  slow  retreat  the  sad  remains  of  war.  20 

There  strides  bold  Putnam,  and  from  all  the  plains 

Calls  the  tir'd  troops,  the  tardy  rear  sustains, 

And,  mid  the  whizzing  deaths  that  fill  the  air, 

Waves  back  his  sword  and  dares  the  foll'wing  war. 

Thro'  falling  fires  Columbus  sees  remain  25 

Half  of  each  host  in  heaps  promiscuous  slain, 


JOEL  BARLOW  121 


While  dying  crowds  the  lingering  life-blood  pour, 
And  slippery  steeps  are  trod  with  prints  of  gore. 
There,  glorious  Warren,  thy  cold  earth  was  seen; 
There  spring  thy  laurels  in  immortal  green:  30 

Dearest  of  chiefs  that  ever  press'd  the  plain, 
In  freedom's  cause  with  early  honours  slain, 
Still  dear  in  death  as  when  in  fight  you  mov'd, 
By  hosts  applauded  and  by  Heav'n  approv'd; 
The  faithful  Muse  shall  tell  the  world  thy  fame,  35 

And  unborn  realms  resound  th'  immortal  name. 
1870-87.  1787. 

FROM 
THE  COLUMBIAD 

Eager  he  look'd:  another  train  of  years 

Had  rolPd  unseen  and  brighten'd  still  their  spheres. 

Earth,  more  resplendent  in  the  floods  of  day, 

Assumed  new  smiles,  and  flush'd  around  him  lay: 

Green  swell  the  mountains,  calm  the  oceans  roll,  5 

Fresh  beams  of  beauty  kindle  round  the  pole; 

Thro  all  the  range  where  shores  and  seas  extend, 

In  tenfold  pomp  the  works  of  peace  ascend. 

Robed  in  the  bloom  of  spring's  eternal  year, 

And  ripe  with  fruits,  the  same  glad  fields  appear;  10 

O'er  hills  and  vales  perennial  gardens  run, 

Cities  unwall'd  stand  sparkling  to  the  sun; 

The  streams,  all  freighted  from  the  bounteous  plain, 

Swell  with  the  load  and  labor  to  the  main, 

Whose  stormless  waves  command  a  steadier  gale  15 

And  prop  the  pinions  of  a  bolder  sail; 

Sway'd  with  the  floating  weight,  each  ocean  toils, 

And  joyous  nature's  full  perfection  smiles. 

Fill'd  with  unfolding  fate,  the  vision'd  age 
Now  leads  its  actors  on  a  broader  stage:  20 

When,  clothed  majestic  in  the  robes  of  state, 
Moved  by  one  voice,  in  general  congress  meet 
The  legates  of  all  empires.    Twas  the  place 
Where  wretched  men  first  firm'd  their  wandering  pace, 
Ere  yet,  beguiled,  the  dark  delirious  hordes  25 

Began  to  fight  for  altars  and  for  lords; 


22  AMERICAN  POEMS 

Nile  washes  still  the  soil,  and  feels  once  more 
The  works  of  wisdom  press  his  peopled  shore. 

In  this  mid  site,  this  monumental  clime, 
Rear'd  by  all  realms  to  brave  the  wrecks  of  time  30 

A  spacious  dome  swells  up,  commodious  great, 
The  last  resort,  the  unchanging  scene  of  state. 
On  rocks  of  adamant  the  walls  ascend, 
Tall  columns  heave,  and  sky-like  arches  bend; 
Bright  o'er  the  golden  roofs  the  glittering  spires  35 

Far  in  the  concave  meet  the  solar  fires; 
Four  blazing  fronts,  with  gates  unfolding  high, 
Look  with  immortal  splendor  round  the  sky. 
Hither  the  delegated  sires  ascend, 

And  all  the  cares  of  every  clime  attend.  40 

As  that  blest  band,  the  guardian  guides  of  heaven, 
To  whom  the  care  of  stars  and  suns  is  given, 
When  one  great  circuit  shall  have  proved  their  spheres 
And  time  well  taught  them  how  to  wind  their  years, 
Shall  meet  in  general  council,  call'd  to  state  45 

The  laws  and  labors  that  their  charge  await, 
To  learn,  to  teach,  to  settle  how  to  hold 
Their  course  more  glorious  as  their  lights  unfold; 
From  all  the  bounds  of  space  (the  mandate  known) 
They  wing  their  passage  to  the  eternal  throne;  50 

Each  thro  his  far  dim  sky  illumes  the  road, 
And  sails  and  centres  tow'rd  the  mount  of  God, 
There  in  mid  universe  their  seats  to  rear, 
Exchange  their  counsels  and  their  works  compare: 
So,  from  all  tracts  of  earth,  this  gathering  throng  55 

In  ships  and  chariots  shape  their  course  along, 
Reach  with  unwonted  speed  the  place  assign 'd, 
To  hear  and  give  the  counsels  of  mankind. 

South  of  the  sacred  mansion,  first  resort 
The  assembled  sires,  and  pass  the  spacious  court.  60 

Here  in  his  porch  earth's  figured  Genius  stands, 
Truth's  mighty  mirror  poizing  in  his  hands. 
Graved  on  the  pedestal  and  chased  in  gold, 
Man's  noblest  arts  their  symbol  forms  unfold:— 
His  tillage  and  his  trade,  with  all  the  store  65 

Of  wondrous  fabrics  and  of  useful  lore; 
Labors  that  fashion  to  his  sovereign  sway 


JOEL  BARLOW  123 


Earth's  total  powers,  her  soil  and  air  and  sea, 

Force  them  to  yield  their  fruits  at  his  known  call, 

And  bear  his  mandates  round  the  rolling  ball,  70 

Beneath  the  footstool  all  destructive  things, 

The  mask  of  priesthood  and  the  mace  of  kings, 

Lie  trampled  in  the  dust;  for  here  at  last 

Fraud,  folly,  error  all  their  emblems  cast. 

Each  envoy  here  unloads  his  wearied  hand  75 

Of  some  old  idol  from  his  native  land: 

One  flings  a  pagod  on  the  mingled  heap, 

One  lays  a  crescent,  one  a  cross  to  sleep; 

Swords,  sceptres,  mitres,  crowns  and  globes  and  stars. 

Codes  of  false  fame  and  stimulants  to  wars  80 

Sink  in  the  settling  mass;  since  guile  began, 

These  are  the  agents  of  the  woes  of  man. 

Now  the  full  concourse,  where  the  arches  bend. 
Pour  thro  by  thousands  and  their  seats  ascend. 
Far  as  the  centred  eye  can  range  around  85 

Or  the  deep  trumpet's  solemn  voice  resound, 
Long  rows  of  reverend  sires  sublime  extend, 
And  cares  of  worlds  on  every  brow  suspend. 
High  in  the  front,  for  soundest  wisdom  known, 
A  sire  elect  in  peerless  grandeur  shone:  go 

He  open'd  calm  the  universal  cause, 
To  give  each  realm  its  limit  and  its  laws, 
Bid  the  last  breath  of  tired  contention  cease 
And  bind  all  regions  in  the  leagues  of  peace; 
Till  one  confederate,  condependent  sway  95 

Spread  with  the  sun  and  bound  the  walks  of  day, 
One  centred  system,  one  all-ruling  soul 
Live  thro  the  parts  and  regulate  the  whole. 

"Here,  then,"  said  Hesper,  with  a  blissful  smile, 
'Behold  the  fruits  of  thy  long  years  of  toil.  too 

To  yon  bright  borders  of  Atlantic  day 
Thy  swelling  pinions  led  the  trackless  way, 
And  taught  mankind  such  useful  deeds  to  dare, 
To  trace  new  seas  and  happy  nations  rear; 
Till  by  fraternal  hands  their  sails  unfurl'd  105 

Have  waved  at  last  in  union  o'er  the  world. 
Then  let  thy  stedfast  soul  no  more  complain 
Of  dangers  braved  and  griefs  endured  in  vain, 


124 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Of  courts  insidious,  envy's  poison'd  stings, 

The  loss  of  empire  and  the  frown  of  kings,  no 

While  these  broad  views  thy  better  thoughts  compose 

To  spurn  the  malice  of  insulting  foes, 

And  all  the  joys  descending  ages  gain 

Repay  thy  labors  and  remove  thy  pain." 

1807. 

THE  HASTY-PUDDING 

CANTO   I 

Ye  Alps  audacious  thro'  the  Heav'ns  that  rise 

To  cramp  the  day  and  hide  me  from  the  skies, 

Ye  Gallic  flags  that,  o'er  their  heights  unfurl'd, 

Bear  death  to  kings  and  freedom  to  the  world, 

I  sing  not  you.     A  softer  theme  I  chuse,  5 

A  virgin  theme,  unconscious  of  the  Muse, 

But  fruitful,  rich,  well  suited  to  inspire 

The  purest  frenzy  of  poetic  fire. 

Despise  it  not,  ye  Bards  to  terror  steel'd, 

Who  hurld  your  thunders  round  the  epic  field;  10 

Nor  ye  who  strain  your  midnight  throats  to  sing 

Joys  that  the  vineyard  and  the  still-house  bring, 

Or  on  some  distant  fair  your  notes  employ 

And  speak  of  raptures  that  you  ne'er  enjoy. 

I  sing  the  sweets  I  know,  the  charms  I  feel,  15 

My  morning  incense  and  my  evening  meal, 

The  sweets  of  Hasty-Pudding.     Come,  dear  bowl, 

Glide  o'er  my  palate  and  inspire  my  soul. 

The  milk  beside  thee,  smoking  from  the  kine, 

Its  substance  mingled,  married  in  with  thine,  20 

Shall  cool  and  temper  thy  superior  heat, 

And  save  the  pains  of  blowing  while  I  eat. 

Oh,  could  the  smooth,  the  emblematic  song 

Flow  like  thy  genial  juices  o'er  my  tongue, 

Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers  chime,  25 

And  as  they  roll  in  substance  roll  in  rhyme, 

No  more  thy  aukward  unpoetic  name 

Should  shun  the  Muse  or  prejudice  thy  fame, 

But,  rising  grateful  to  th'  accustom'd  ear, 

All  Bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms  revere.  ft 


JOEL   BARLOW  12 


Assist  me  first  with  pious  toil  to  trace 
Thro'  wrecks  of  time  thy  lineage  and  thy  race: 
Declare  what  lovely  squaw,  in  days  of  yore 
(Ere  great  Columbus  sought  thy  native  shore), 
First  gave  thee  to  the  world;  her  works  of  fame  35 

Have  Hv'd  indeed,  but  liv'd  without  a  name. 
Some  tawny  Ceres,  goddess  of  her  days, 
First  learn'd  with  stones  to  crack  the  well-dry'd  maize, 
Thro'  the  rough  sieve  to  shake  the  golden  show'r, 
In  boiling  water  stir  the  yellow  flour:  40 

The  yellow  flour,  bestrew'd  and  stir'd  with  haste, 
Swells  in  the  flood  and  thickens  to  a  paste, 
Then  puffs  and  wallops,  rises  to  the  brim, 
Drinks  the  dry  knobs  that  on  the  surface  swim; 
The  knobs  at  last  the  busy  ladle  breaks,  45 

And  the  whole  mass  its  true  consistence  takes. 
Could  but  her  sacred  name,  unknown  so  long, 
Rise  like  her  labors  to  the  son  of  song, 
To  her,  to  them,  I  'd  consecrate  my  lays, 
And  blow  her  pudding  with  the  breath  of  praise.  50 

If  't  was  Oella,  whom  I  sang  before, 
I  here  ascribe  her  one  great  virtue  more. 
Not  thro'  the  rich  Peruvian  realms  alone 
The  fame  of  Sol's  sweet  daughter  should  be  known, 
But  o'er  the  world's  wide  climes  should  live  secure,  55 

Far  as  his  rays  extend,  as  long  as  they  endure. 

Dear  Hasty-Pudding,  what  unpromis'd  joy 
Expands  my  heart  to  meet  thee  in  Savoy! 
Doom'd  o'er  the  world  thro'  devious  paths  to  roam, 
Each  clime  my  country,  and  each  house  my  home,  60 

My  soul  is  sooth'd,  my  cares  have  found  an  end; 
I  greet  my  long-lost,  unforgotten  friend. 
For  thee  thro'  Paris,  that  corrupted  town, 
How  long  in  vain  I  wandered  up  and  down, 
Where  shameless  Bacchus,  with  his  drenching  hoard,  65 

Cold  from  his  cave  usurps  the  morning  board. 
London  is  lost  in  smoke  and  steep'd  in  tea: 
No  Yankee  there  can  lisp  the  name  of  thee; 
The  uncouth  word,  a  libel  on  the  town, 

vVould  call  a  proclamation  from  the  crown.  70 

For  climes  oblique,  that  fear  the  sun's  full  rays. 


126  AMERICAN  POEMS 


ChilPd  in  their  fogs,  exclude  the  generous  maize, 

A  grain  whose  rich  luxuriant  growth  requires 

Short  gentle  showers  and  bright  etherial  fires. 

But  here,  tho'  distant  from  our  native  shore,  75 

With  mutual  glee  we  meet  and  laugh  once  more. 

The  same — I  know  thee  by  that  yellow  face, 

That  strong  complexion  of  true  Indian  race, 

Which  time  can  never  change  nor  soil  impair, 

Nor  Alpine  snows,  nor  Turkey's  morbid  air:  80 

For  endless  years,  thro'  every  mild  domain, 

Where  grows  the  maize  there  thou  art  sure  to  reign. 

But  man,  more  fickle,  the  bold  licence  claims 
In  different  realms  to  give  thee  different  names. 
Thee  the  soft  nations  round  the  warm  Levant  85 

Polanta  call,  the  French  of  course  Polante; 
Ev'n  in  thy  native  regions  how  I  blush 
To  hear  the  Pennsylvanians  call  thee  Mush! 
On  Hudson's  banks  while  men  of  Belgic  spawn 
Insult  and  eat  thee  by  the  name  suppaivn.  90 

All  spurious  appellations,  void  of  truth; 
I  Ve  better  known  thee  from  my  earliest  youth. 
Thy  name  is  Hasty-Pudding!  thus  our  sires 
Were  wont  to  greet  thee  fuming  from  their  fires; 
And  while  they  argu'd  in  thy  just  defence  95 

With  logic  clear,  they  thus  explain'd  the  sense: 
"In  haste  the  boiling  cauldron  o'er  the  blaze 
Receives  and  cooks  the  ready-powder'd  maize; 
In  haste  't  is  serv'd;  and  then  in  equal  haste 
With  cooling  milk  we  make  the  sweet  repast.  100 

No  carving  to  be  done,  no  knife  to  grate 
The  tender  ear  and  wound  the  stony  plate; 
But  the  smooth  spoon,  just  fitted  to  the  lip, 
And  taught  with  art  the  yielding  mass  to  dip, 
By  frequent  journeys  to  the  bowl  well  stor'd  105 

Performs  the  hasty  honors  of  the  board." 
Such  is  thy  name,  significant  and  clear, 
A  name,  a  sound  to  every  Yankey  dear, 
But  most  to  me,  whose  heart  and  palate  chaste 
Preserve  my  pure  hereditary  taste.  no 

There  are  who  strive  to  stamp  with  disrepute 
The  luscious  food,  because  it  feeds  the  brute: 


JOEL  BARLOW  127 


In  tropes  of  high-strain'd  wit  while  gaudy  prigs 

Compare  thy  nursling  man  to  pamper'd  pigs, 

With  sovereign  scorn  I  treat  the  vulgar  jest,  115 

Nor  fear  to  share  thy  bounties  with  the  beast. 

What  though  the  generous  cow  gives  me  to  quaff 

The  milk  nutritious:  am  I  then  a  calf? 

Or  can  the  genius  of  the  noisy  swine, 

Tho'  nurs'd  on  pudding,  thence  lay  claim  to  mine?  120 

Sure  the  sweet  song  I  fashion  to  thy  praise 

Runs  more  melodious  than  the  notes  they  raise. 

My  song  resounding  in  its  grateful  glee 
No  merit  claims;  I  praise  myself  in  thee. 
My  father  lov'd  thee  thro'  his  length  of  days:  125 

For  thee  his  fields  were  shaded  o'er  with  maize; 
From  thee  what  health,  what  vigor  he  possest, 
Ten  sturdy  freeman  sprung  from  him  attest; 
Thy  constellation  rul'd  my  natal  morn, 

And  all  my  bones  were  made  of  Indian  corn.  130 

Delicious  grain,  whatever  form  it  take, 
To  roast  or  boil,  to  smother  or  to  bake, 
In  every  dish  't  is  welcome  still  to  me, 
But  most,  my  Hasty-Pudding,  most  in  thee. 

Let  the  green  Succatash  with  thee  contend,  135 

Let  beans  and  corn  their  sweetest  juices  blend, 
Let  butter  drench  them  in  its  yellow  tide, 
And  a  long  slice  of  bacon  grace  their  side: 
Not  all  the  plate,  how  fam'd  soe'er  it  be, 
Can  please  my  palate  like  a  bowl  of  thee.  140 

Some  talk  of  Hoe-cake,  fair  Virginia's  pride; 
Rich  Johnny-cake  this  mouth  has  often  tri'd: 
Both  please  me  well,  their  virtues  much  the  same, 
Alike  their  fabric  as  allied  their  fame — 
Except  in  dear  New-England,  where  the  last  145 

Receives  a  dash  of  pumpkin  in  the  paste, 
To  give  it  sweetness  and  improve  the  taste. 
But  place  them  all  before  me,  smoaking  hot: 
The  big  round  dumplin  rolling  from  the  pot; 
The  pudding  of  the  bag,  whose  quivering  breast,  150 

With  suet  lin'd,  leads  on  the  Yankey  feast; 
The  Charlotte  brown,  within  whose  crusty  sides 
A  belly  soft  the  pulpy  apple  hides; 


128  AMERICAN  POEMS 

The  yellow  bread  whose  face  like  amber  glows, 

And  all  of  Indian  that  the  bake-pan  knows —  155 

You  tempt  me  not:  my  fav'rite  greets  my  eyes; 

To  that  lov'd  bowl  my  spoon  by  instinct  flies. 

CANTO  n 

To  mix  the  food  by  vicious  rules  of  art, 
To  kill  the  stomach  and  to  sink  the  heart, 
To  make  mankind,  to  social  virtue  sour, 
Cram  o'er  each  dish  and  be  what  they  devour, 
For  this  the  kitchen  Muse  first  fram'd  her  book,  5 

Commanding  sweats  to  stream  from  every  cook; 
Children  no  more  their  antic  gambols  tri'd, 
And  friends  to  physic  wonder'd  why  they  died. 
Not  so  the  Yankey:  his  abundant  feast, 
With  simples  furnish'd  and  with  plainness  drest,  10 

A  numerous  offspring  gathers  round  the  board, 
And  cheers  alike  the  servant  and  the  lord, 
Whose  well-bought  hunger  prompts  the  joyous  taste; 
And  health  attends  them  from  the  short  repast. 
While  the  full  pail  rewards  the  milk-maid's  toil,  15 

The  mother  sees  the  morning  cauldron  boil; 
To  stir  the  pudding  next  demands  their  care, 
To  spread  the  table  and  the  bowls  prepare; 
To  feed  the  children,  as  their  portions  cool, 
And  comb  their  heads,  and  send  them  off  to  school.  20 

Yet  may  the  simplest  dish  some  rules  impart, 
For  nature  scorns  not  all  the  aids  of  art. 
Ev'n  Hasty-Pudding,  purest  of  all  food, 
May  still  be  bad,  indifferent,  or  good, 

As  sage  experience  the  short  process  guides,  25 

Or  want  of  skill  or  want  of  care  presides. 
Whoe'er  would  form  it  on  the  surest  plan, 
To  rear  the  child  and  long  sustain  the  man, 
To  shield  the  morals  while  it  mends  the  size 
And  all  the  powers  of  every  food  supplies,  30 

Attend  the  lessons  that  the  Muse  shall  bring, 
Suspend  your  spoons  and  listen  while  I  sing. 

But  since,  O  man,  thy  life  and  health  demand 
Not  food  alone  but  labour  from  thy  hand, 
First  in  the  field,  beneath  the  sun's  strong  rays,  35 


JOEL  BARLOW  129 


Ask  of  thy  mother  earth  the  needful  maize; 
She  loves  the  race  that  courts  her  yielding  soil, 
And  gives  her  bounties  to  the  sons  of  toil. 

When  now  the  ox,  obedient  to  thy  call, 

Repays  the  loan  that  fill'd  the  winter  stall,  40 

Pursue  his  traces  o'er  the  furrow'd  plain, 
And  plant  in  measur'd  hills  the  golden  grain. 
But  when  the  tender  germe  begins  to  shoot, 
And  the  green  spire  declares  the  sprouting  root, 
Then  guard  your  nursling  from  each  greedy  foe,  45 

Th'  insidious  worm,  the  all-devouring  crow: 
A  little  ashes  sprinkled  round  the  spire, 
Soon  steep'd  in  rain,  will  bid  the  worm  retire; 
The  feather'd  robber  with  his  hungry  maw 
Swift  flies  the  field  before  your  man  of  straw,  50 

A  frightful  image,  such  as  school-boys  bring 
When  met  to  burn  the  Pope  or  hang  the  King. 

Thrice  in  the  season,  through  each  verdant  row 
Wield  the  strong  plow-share  and  the  faithful  hoe — 
The  faithful  hoe  a  double  task  that  takes,  55 

To  till  the  summer  corn  and  roast  the  winter  cakes. 

Slow  springs  the  blade  while  check'd  by  chilling  rains, 
Ere  yet  the  sun  the  seat  of  Cancer  gains; 
But  when  his  fiercest  fires  emblaze  the  land, 
Then  start  the  juices,  then  the  roots  expand,  60 

Then,  like  a  column  of  Corinthian  mould, 
The  stalk  struts  upward  and  the  leaves  unfold, 
The  bushy  branches  all  the  ridges  fill, 
Entwine  their  arms,  and  kiss  from  hill  to  hill. 
Here  cease  to  vex  them;  all  your  cares  are  done;  6/ 

Leave  the  last  labors  to  the  parent  sun: 
Beneath  his  genial  smiles  the  well-drest  field, 
When  autumn  calls,  a  plenteous  crop  shall  yield. 

Now  the  strong  foliage  bears  the  standards  high, 
And  shoots  the  tall  top-gallants  to  the  sky;  70 

The  suckling  ears  their  silky  fringes  bend, 
And,  pregnant  grown,  their  swelling  coats  distend; 
The  loaded  stalk,  while  still  the  burthen  grows, 
O'erhangs  the  space  that  runs  between  the  rows. 
High  as  a  hop-field  waves  the  silent  grove,  75 

A  safe  retreat  for  little  thefts  of  love, 


130 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


When  the  pledg'd  roasting-ears  invite  the  maid 

To  meet  her  swain  beneath  the  new-form'd  shade: 

His  generous  hand  unloads  the  cumbrous  hill, 

And  the  green  spoils  her  ready  basket  fill;  80 

Small  compensation  for  the  two-fold  bliss, 

The  promis'd  wedding  and  the  present  kiss. 

Slight  depredations  these:  but  now  the  moon 
Calls  from  his  hollow  tree  the  sly  raccoon; 
And  while  by  night  he  bears  his  prize  away,  85 

The  bolder  squirrel  labors  thro'  the  day; 
Both  thieves  alike,  but  provident  of  time — 
A  virtue  rare  that  almost  hides  their  crime. 
Then  let  them  steal  the  little  stores  they  can, 
And  fill  their  grain'ries  from  the  toils  of  man;  90 

We  've  one  advantage  where  they  take  no  part — 
With  all  their  wiles  they  ne'er  have  found  the  art 
To  boil  the  Hasty-Pudding;  here  we  shine 
Superior  far  to  tenants  of  the  pine: 

This  envy'd  boon  to  man  shall  still  belong,  95 

Unshar'd  by  them  in  substance  or  in  song. 

At  last  the  closing  season  browns  the  plain, 
And  ripe  October  gathers  in  the  grain; 
Deep-loaded  carts  the  spacious  corn-house  fill, 
The  sack  distended  marches  to  the  mill;  100 

The  lab'ring  mill  beneath  the  burthen  groans, 
And  show'rs  the  future  pudding  from  the  stones; 
Till  the  glad  house-wife  greets  the  powder'd  gold, 
And  the  new  crop  exterminates  the  old. 

CANTO  m 

The  days  grow  short;  but  tho'  the  falling  sun 
To  the  glad  swain  proclaims  his  day's  work  done, 
Night's  pleasing  shades  his  various  task  prolong, 
And  yield  new  subjects  to  my  various  song. 
For  now,  the  corn-house  fill'd,  the  harvest  home,  5 

Th'  invited  neighbours  to  the  Husking  come— 
A  frolic  scene,  where  work  and  mirth  and  play 
Unite  their  charms  to  chace  the  hours  away. 
Where  the  huge  heap  lies  center'd  in  the  hall, 
The  lamp  suspended  from  the  cheerful  wall,  10 

Brown  corn-fed  nymphs  and  strong  hard-handed  beaux, 


JOEL  BARLOW 


Alternate  rang'd,  extend  in  circling  rows, 

Assume  their  seats,  the  solid  mass  attack: 

The  dry  husks  rustle,  and  the  corn-cobs  crack; 

The  song,  the  laugh,  alternate  notes  resound,  15 

And  the  sweet  cider  trips  in  silence  round. 

The  laws  of  Husking  ev'ry  wight  can  tell, 

And  sure  no  laws  he  ever  keeps  so  well: 

For  each  red  ear  a  general  kiss  he  gains, 

With  each  smut  ear  she  smuts  the  luckless  swains;  20 

But  when  to  some  sweet  maid  a  prize  is  cast 

Red  as  her  lips  and  taper  as  her  waist, 

She  walks  the  round  and  culls  one  favor'd  beau, 

Who  leaps  the  luscious  tribute  to  bestow. 

Various  the  sport  as  are  the  wits  and  brains  25 

Of  well-pleas'd  lasses  and  contending  swains, 

Till  the  vast  mound  of  corn  is  swept  away, 

And  he  that  gets  the  last  ear  wins  the  day. 

Meanwhile  the  house- wife  urges  all  her  care 

The  well-ear n'd  feast  to  hasten  and  prepare.  3° 

The  sifted  meal  already  waits  her  hand, 

The  milk  is  strain'd,  the  bowls  in  order  stand; 

The  fire  flames  high,  and,  as  a  pool — that  takes 

The  headlong  stream  that  o'er  the  mill-dam  breaks — 

Foams,  roars,  and  rages  with  incessant  toils,  35 

So  the  vext  cauldren  rages,  roars,  and  boils. 

First  with  clean  salt  she  seasons  well  the  food; 

Then  strews  the  flour,  and  thickens  all  the  flood; 

Long  o'er  the  simmering  fire  she  lets  it  stand: 

To  stir  it  well  demands  a  stronger  hand;  40 

The  husband  takes  his  turn,  and  round  and  round 

The  ladle  flies.     At  last  the  toil  is  crown'd; 

When  to  the  board  the  thronging  huskers  pour, 

And  take  their  seats  as  at  the  corn  before. 

I  leave  them  to  their  feast.    There  still  belong  45 

More  copious  matters  to  my  faithful  song; 

For  rules  there  are,  tho'  ne'er  unfolded  yet, 

Nice  rules  and  wise,  how  pudding  should  be  ate. 
Some  with  molasses  line  the  luscious  treat, 

And  mix,  like  Bards,  the  useful  with  the  sweet:  5° 

A  wholesome  dish,  and  well  deserving  praise; 

A  great  resource  in  those  bleak  wintry  days 


132  AMERICAN  POEMS 


When  the  chill'd  earth  lies  buried  deep  in  snow, 
And  raging  Boreas  dries  the  shivering  cow. 

Blest  cow,  thy  praise  shall  still  my  notes  employ,  55 

Great  source  of  health,  the  only  source  of  joy! 
How  oft  thy  teats  these  pious  hands  have  prest; 
How  oft  thy  bounties  prov'd  my  only  feast; 
How  oft  I  Ve  fed  thee  with  my  fav'rite  grain; 
And  roar'd,  like  thee,  to  find  thy  children  slain!  60 

Ye  swains  who  know  her  various  worth  to  prize, 
Ah,  house  her  well  from  Winter's  angry  skies. 
Potatoes,  Pumpkins  should  her  sadness  cheer, 
Corn  from  your  crib,  and  mashes  from  your  beer; 
When  Spring  returns  she  '11  well  acquit  the  loan,  65 

And  nurse  at  once  your  infants  and  her  own. 

Milk,  then,  with  pudding  I  should  always  chuse; 
To  this  in  future  I  confine  my  Muse, 
Till  she  in  haste  some  farther  hints  unfold, 
Well  for  the  young  nor  useless  to  the  old.  70 

First  in  your  bowl  the  milk  abundant  take, 
Then  drop  with  care  along  the  silver  lake 
Your  flakes  of  pudding;  these  at  first  will  hide 
Their  little  bulk  beneath  the  swelling  tide; 
But  when  their  growing  mass  no  more  can  sink,  75 

When  the  soft  island  looms  above  the  brink, 
Then  check  your  hand:  you  've  got  the  portion  's  due; 
So  taught  our  sires,  and  what  they  taught  is  true. 

There  is  a  choice  in  spoons.     Tho'  small  appear 
The  nice  distinction,  yet  to  me  't  is  clear.  80 

The  deep-bowl'd  Gallic  spoon,  contriv'd  to  scoop 
In  ample  draughts  the  thin  diluted  soup, 
Performs  not  well  in  those  substantial  things 
Whose  mass  adhesive  to  the  metal  clings, 
Where  the  strong  labial  muscles  must  embrace  85 

The  gentle  curve  and  sweep  the  hollow  space. 
With  ease  to  enter  and  discharge  the  freight, 
A  bowl  less  concave  but  still  more  dilate 
Becomes  the  pudding  best.    The  shape,  the  size, 
A  secret  rests  unknown  to  vulgar  eyes:  90 

Experienc'd  feeders  can  alone  impart 
A  rule  so  much  above  the  lore  of  art. 
These  tuneful  lips,  that  thousand  spoons  have  tried, 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  133 


With  just  precision  could  the  point  decide, 

Tho'  not  in  song;  the  muse  but  poorly  shines  95 

In  cones  and  cubes  and  geometric  lines. 

Yet  the  true  form,  as  near  as  she  can  tell, 

Is  that  small  section  of  a  goose-egg-shell 

Which  in  two  equal  portions  shall  divide 

The  distance  from  the  center  to  the  side.  100 

Fear  not  to  slaver;   't  is  no  deadly  sin. 
Like  the  free  Frenchman,  from  your  joyous  chin 
Suspend  the  ready  napkin;  or,  like  me, 
Poise  with  one  hand  your  bowl  upon  your  knee, 
Just  in  the  zenith  your  wise  head  preject —  105 

Your  full  spoon,  rising  in  a  line  direct, 
Bold  as  a  bucket,  heeds  no  drops  that  fall; 
The  wide-mouth 'd  bowl  will  surely  catch  them  all. 

1793. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU 

FROM 

THE  BEAUTIES  OF  SANTA  CRUZ 

Sick  of  thy  northern  glooms,  come,  shepherd,  seek 
More  equal  climes  and  a  serener  sky: 
Why  shouldst  thou  toil  amid  thy  frozen  ground, 
Where  half  year's  snows  a  barren  prospect  lie, 

When  thou  mayst  go  where  never  frost  was  seen,  5 

Or  north-west  winds  with  cutting  fury  blow, 
Where  never  ice  congeal'd  the  limpid  stream, 
Where  never  mountain  tipt  its  head  with  snow  ? 

Twice  seven  days  prosperous  gales  thy  barque  shall  bear 

To  isles  that  flourish  in  perpetual  green,  10 

Where  richest  herbage  glads  each  shady  vale, 

And  ever  verdant  plants  on  every  hill  are  seen 

From  the  vast  caverns  of  old  ocean's  bed 

Fair  SANTA  CRUZ  arising  laves  her  waist; 

The  threat'ning  waters  roar  on  every  side,  15 

For  every  side  by  ocean  is  embrac'd. 


134  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Sharp,  craggy  rocks  repell  the  surging  brine, 

Whose  cavern'd  sides,  by  restless  billows  wore, 

Resemblance  claim  to  that  remoter  isle 

Where  once  the  winds'  proud  lord  the  sceptre  bore.  20 

Betwixt  old  Cancer  and  the  mid-way  line, 

In  happiest  climate  lies  this  envied  isle: 

Trees  bloom  throughout  the  year,  streams  ever  flow, 

And  fragrant  Flora  wears  a  lasting  smile 

The  happy  waters  boast,  of  various  kinds,  25 

Unnumber'd  myriads  of  the  scaly  race; 
Sportive  they  glide  above  the  delug'd  sand,  , 

Gay  as  their  clime,  in  ocean's  ample  vase. 

Some,  streak'd  with  burnish'd  gold,  resplendent  glare, 

Some  cleave  the  limpid  deep  all  silver'd  o'er,  30 

Some  clad  in  living  green  delight  the  eye, 

Some  red,  some  blue,  of  mingled  colours  more. 

Here  glides  the  spangled  Dolphin  through  the  deep; 

The  giant-carcas'd  whales  at  distance  stray; 

The  huge  green  turtles  wallow  through  the  wave,  35 

Well  pleas'd  alike  with  land  or  water  they 

Sweet  verdant  isle,  through  thy  dark  woods  I  rove 

And  learn  the  nature  of  each  native  tree: 

The  fustick  hard,  the  poisonous  manchineel, 

Which  for  its  fragrant  apple  pleaseth  thee;  40 

Alluring  to  the  smell,  fair  to  the  eye, 
But  deadliest  poison  in  the  taste  is  found— 
O  shun  the  dangerous  tree,  nor  taste,  like  Eve, 
This  interdicted  fruit  in  Eden's  ground. 

The  lowly  mangrove,  fond  of  watry  soil,  45 

The  white-bark'd  gregory,  rising  high  in  air, 
The  mastick  in  the  woods  you  may  descry; 
Tamarind  and  lofty  plumb-trees  flourish  there. 

Sweet  orange  groves  in  lonely  vallies  rise, 

And  drop  their  fruits  unnotic'd  and  unknown;  50 

The  cooling  acid  limes  in  hedges  grow, 

The  juicy  lemons  swell  in  shades  their  own 


PHILIP  FRENEAU 


The  plantane  and  banana  flourish  here, 

Of  hasty  growth,  and  love  to  fix  their  root 

Where  some  soft  stream  of  ambling  water  flows,  55 

To  yield  full  moisture  to  their  cluster'd  fruit. 

No  other  trees  so  vast  a  leaf  can  boast, 

So  broad,  so  long:  through  these  refresh 'd  I  stray, 

And  though  the  noon-sun  all  his  radiance  shed, 

These  friendly  leaves  shall  shade  me  all  the  way,  60 

And  tempt  the  cooling  breeze  to  hasten  there, 
With  its  sweet  odorous  breath  to  charm  the  grove; 
High  shades  and  verdant  seats,  while  underneath 
A  little  stream  by  mossy  banks  doth  rove, 

Where  once  the  Indian  dames  slept  with  their  swains,  65 

Or  fondly  kiss'd  the  moon-light  eves  away; 
The  lovers  fled,  the  tearful  stream  remains, 
And  only  I  console  it  with  my  lay 

But,  shepherd,  haste,  and  leave  behind  thee  far 

Thy  bloody  plains  and  iron  glooms  above;  70 

Quit  the  cold  northern  star,  and  here  enjoy 

Beneath  the  smiling  skies  this  land  of  love. 

The  drowsy  pelican  wings  home  his  way, 

The  misty  eve  sits  heavy  on  the  sea, 

And  though  yon'  sail  drags  slowly  o'er  the  main,  75 

Say,  shall  a  moment's  gloom  discourage  thee? 

To-morrow's  sun  now  paints  the  faded  scene; 
Though  deep  in  ocean  sink  his  western  beams, 
His  spangled  chariot  shall  ascend  more  clear, 
More  radiant,  from  the  drowsy  land  of  dreams.  80 

1776.  1779- 


FROM 

THE  HOUSE  OF  NIGHT 

By  some  sad  means,  when  Reason  holds  no  sway, 
Lonely  I  rov'd  at  midnight  o'er  a  plain 
Where  murmuring  streams  and  mingling  rivers  flow 
Far  to  their  springs  or  seek  the  sea  again. 


136  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Sweet  vernal  May!  tho'  then  thy  woods  in  bloom  5 

Flourish'd,  yet  nought  of  this  could  Fancy  see; 

No  wild  pinks  bless'd  the  meads,  no  green  the  fields, 

And  naked  seem'd  to  stand  each  lifeless  tree. 

Dark  was  the  sky,  and  not  one  friendly  star 

Shone  from  the  zenith  or  horizon,  clear;  10 

Mist  sate  upon  the  woods,  and  darkness  rode 

In  her  black  chariot  with  a  wild  career. 

And  from  the  woods  the  late-resounding  note 

Issued  of  the  loquacious  Whip-poor-will; 

Hoarse,  howling  dogs  and  nightly  roving  wolves  15 

Clamour'd  from  far-off  clifts  invisible. 

Rude  from  the  wide-extended  Chesapeke 

I  heard  the  winds  the  dashing  waves  assail, 

And  saw  from  far,  by  picturing  fancy  form'd, 

The  black  ship  travelling  through  the  noisy  gale.  20 

At  last,  by  chance  and  guardian  fancy  led, 
I  reach'd  a  noble  dome  rais'd  fair  and  high, 
And  saw  the  light  from  upper  windows  flame, 
Presage  of  mirth  and  hospitality. 

And  by  that  light  around  the  dome  appear'd  25 

A  mournful  garden  of  autumnal  hue; 

Its  lately  pleasing  flowers  all  drooping  stood 

Amidst  high  weeds  that  in  rank  plenty  grew. 

The  Primrose  there,  the  violet  darkly  blue, 

Daisies  and  fair  Narcissus  ceas'd  to  rise;  30 

Gay  spotted  pinks  their  charming  bloom  withdrew, 

And  Polyanthus  quench'd  its  thousand  dyes. 

No  pleasant  fruit  or  blossom  gaily  smil'd; 

Nought  but  unhappy  plants  and  trees  were  seen: 

The  yew,  the  myrtle,  and  the  church-yard  elm,  35 

The  cypress  with  its  melancholy  green. 

There  cedars  dark,  the  osier,  and  the  pine, 

Shorn  tamarisks,  and  weeping  willows  grew, 

The  poplar  tall,  the  lotos,  and  the  lime; 

And  pyracantha  did  her  leaves  renew.  40 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  137 

The  poppy  there,  companion  to  repose, 
Display 'd  her  blossoms  that  began  to  fall; 
And  here  the  purple  amaranthus  rose, 
With  mint  strong-scented,  for  the  funeral. 

And  here  and  there,  with  laurel  shrubs  between,  45 

A  tombstone  lay,  inscrib'd  with  strains  of  woe; 
And  stanzas  sad,  throughout  the  dismal  green, 
Lamented  for  the  dead  that  slept  below. 

Peace  to  this  awful  dome! — when  strait  I  heard 

The  voice  of  men  in  a  secluded  room;  50 

Much  did  they  talk  of  death  and  much  of  life, 

Of  coffins,  shrouds,  and  horrors  of  a  tomb 

Then  up  three  winding  stairs  my  feet  were  brought 

To  a  high  chamber,  hung  with  mourning  sad; 

The  unsnuff' d  candles  glar'd  with  visage  dim,  55 

'Midst  grief  in  ecstasy  of  woe  run  mad. 

A  wide-leaf 'd  table  stood  on  either  side, 

Well  fraught  with  phials,  half  their  liquids  spent; 

And  from  a  couch  behind  the  curtain's  veil 

I  heard  a  hollow  voice  of  loud  lament.  60 

Turning  to  view  the  object  whence  it  came, 
My  frighted  eyes  a  horrid  form  survey'd 
(Fancy,  I  own  thy  power) :  Death  on  the  couch, 
With  fleshless  limbs,  at  rueful  length,  was  laid. 

And  o'er  his  head  flew  jealousies  and  cares,  65 

Ghosts,  imps,  and  half  the  black  Tartarian  crew, 
Arch-angels  damn'd;  nor  was  their  Prince  remote, 
Borne  on  the  vaporous  wings  of  Stygian  dew. 

Around  his  bed,  by  the  dull  flambeaux'  glare, 

I  saw  pale  phantoms:  Rage  to  madness  vext,  70 

Wan,  wasting  grief,  and  ever-musing  care, 

Distressful  pain,  and  poverty  perplext. 

Sad  was  his  countenance — if  we  can  call 

That  countenance  where  only  bones  were  seen — 

And  eyes  sunk  in  their  sockets',  dark  and  low,  75 

And  teeth  that  only  show'd  themselves  to  grin. 


138  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Reft  was  his  scull  of  hair,  and  no  fresh  bloom 

Of  chearful  mirth  sate  on  his  visage  hoar: 

Sometimes  he  rais'd  his  head,  while  deep-drawn  groans 

Were  mixt  with  words  that  did  his  fate  deplore.  8c 

Oft  did  he  wish  to  see  the  daylight  spring; 
And  often  toward  the  window  lean'd  to  hear, 
Fore-runner  of  the  scarlet-mantled  morn, 
The  early  note  of  wakeful  Chanticleer 

Then  with  a  hollow  voice  thus  went  he  on:  85 

"Get  up  and  search,  and  bring,  when  found,  to  me 
Some  cordial,  potion,  or  some  pleasant  draught, 
Sweet,  slumb'rous  poppy  or  the  mild  Bohea. 

"But  hark,  my  pitying  friend! — and  if  you  can, 
Deceive  the  grim  physician  at  the  door —  90 

Bring  half  the  mountain  springs — ah,  hither  bring 
The  cold  rock- water  from  the  shady  bower; 

"  For  till  this  night  such  thirst  did  ne'er  invade, 
A  thirst  provok'd  by  heav'n's  avenging  hand: 
Hence  bear  me,  friends,  to  quaff  and  quaff  again  95 

The  cool  wave  bubbling  from  the  yellow  sand. 

"To  these  dark  walls  with  stately  step  I  came, 
Prepar'd  your  drugs  and  doses  to  defy; 
Smit  with  the  love  of  never-dying  fame, 
I  came,  alas!  to  conquer — not  to  die!"  100 

Glad,  from  his  side  I  sprang  and  fetch'd  the  draught, 
Which  down  his  greedy  throat  he  quickly  swills; 
Then  on  a  second  errand  sent  me  strait, 
To  search  in  some  dark  corner  for  his  pills. 

Quoth  he,  "These  pills  have  long  compounded  been  105 

Of  dead  men's  bones  and  bitter  roots,  I  trow; 
But  that  I  may  to  wonted  health  return 
Throughout  my  lank  veins  shall  their  substance  go." 

So  down  they  went. — He  rais'd  his  fainting  head, 

And  oft  in  feeble  tone  essay 'd  to  talk:  no 

Quoth  he,  "  Since  remedies  have  small  avail, 

Assist  unhappy  Death  once  more  to  walk." 


PHILIP  FRENEAU 


Then,  slowly  rising  from  his  loathsome  bed, 

On  wasted  legs  the  meagre  monster  stood, 

Gap'd  wide,  and  foam'd,  and  hungry  seem'd  to  ask,  115 

Tho'  sick,  an  endless  quantity  of  food. 

Said  he,  "The  sweet  melodious  flute  prepare, 

The  anthem,  and  the  organ's  solemn  sound, 

Such  as  may  strike  my  soul  with  ecstacy, 

Such  as  may  from  yon'  lofty  walls  rebound.  120 

"Sweet  music  can  the  fiercest  pains  assuage: 
She  bids  the  soul  to  heav'n's  blest  mansions  rise; 
She  calms  despair,  controuls  infernal  rage; 
And  deepest  anguish,  when  it  hears  her,  dies. 

"And  see,  the  mizzling,  misty  midnight  reigns,  125 

And  no  soft  dews  are  on  my  eye-lids  sent: 
Here,  stranger,  lend  thy  hand,  assist  me,  pray, 
To  walk  a  circuit  of  no  large  extent." 

On  my  prest  shoulders  leaning,  round  he  went, 

And  could  have  made  the  boldest  spectre  flee.  13° 

I  led  him  up  stairs,  and  I  led  him  down, 

But  not  one  moment's  rest  from  pain  got  he 

Up  rush'd  a  band,  with  compasses  and  scales 
To  measure  his  slim  carcase,  long  and  lean. 
"Be  sure,"  said  he,  "to  frame  my  coffin  strong,  135 

You,  master  workman,  and  your  men,  I  mean; 

"For  if  the  Devil,  so  late  my  trusty  friend, 
Should  get  one  hint  where  I  am  laid,  from  you, 
Not  with  my  soul  content,  he  'd  seek  to  find 
That  mouldering  mass  of  bones,  my  body,  tool  14° 

"Of  hardest  ebon  let  the  plank  be  found, 
With  clamps  and  ponderous  bars  secur'd  around, 
That  if  the  box  by  Satan  should  be  storm'd 
It  may  be  able  for  resistance  found." 

"Yes,"  said  the  master  workman,  "noble  Death,  145 

Your  coffin  shall  be  strong— that  leave  to  me; 
But  who  shall  these  your  funeral  dues  discharge  ? 
Nor  friends  nor  pence  you  have,  that  I  can  see." 


14°  AMERICAN  POEMS 


To  this  said  Death,  "You  might  have  ask'd  me,  too, 

Base  caitiff,  who  are  my  executors,  ISo 

Where  my  estate,  and  who  the  men  that  shall 

Partake  my  substance  and  be  call'd  my  heirs. 

"Know,  then,  that  hell  is  my  inheritance; 
The  devil  himself  my  funeral  dues  must  pay: 
Go — since  you  must  be  paid — go  ask  of  "him,  155 

For  he  has  gold,  as  fabling  poets  say." 

Strait  they  retir'd — when  thus  he  gave  me  charge, 
Pointing  from  the  light  window  to  the  west: 
"  Go  three  miles  o'er  the  plain,  and  you  shall  see 
A  bury  ing-yard  of  sinners  dead,  unblest.  160 

"Amid  the  graves  a  spiry  building  stands, 
Whose  solemn  knell  resounding  through  the  gloom 
Shall  call  thee  o'er  the  circumjacent  lands 
To  the  dull  mansion  destin'd  for  my  tomb. 

"There,  since  't  is  dark,  I  '11  plant  a  glimmering  light  165 

Just  snatch 'd  from  hell,  by  whose  reflected  beams 
Thou  shalt  beholu  a  tomb-stone,  full  eight  feet, 
Fast  by  a  grave  replete  with  ghosts  and  dreams. 

"And  on  that  stone  engrave  this  epitaph, 

Since  Death,  it  seems,  must  die  like  mortal  men;  170 

Yes,  on  that  stone  engrave  this  epitaph, 
Though  all  hell's  furies  aim  to  snatch  the  pen: — 

"Death  in  this  tomb  his  weary  bones  hath  laid, 
Sick  of  dominion  o'er  the  human  kind: 

Behold  what  devastations  he  hath  made;  175 

Survey  the  millions  by  his  arm  confin'd. 

"Six  thousand  years  has  sovereign  sway  been  mine; 
None  but  myself  can  real  glory  claim: 
Great  Regent  of  the  world  I  reign* d  alone, 
And  princes  trembled  when  my  mandate  came.  180 

"Vast  and  unmatched  throughout  the  world,  my  fame 
Takes  place  of  gods,  and  asks  no  mortal  date — 
No,  by  myself  and  by  the  heavens  I  swear 
Not  Alexander's  name  is  half  so  great. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  141 


'Nor  swords  nor  darts  my  prowess  could  withstand;  185 

All  quit  their  arms  and  bow'd  to  my  decree: 
Even  mighty  JULIUS  died  beneath  my  hand, 
For  slaves  and  Cesars  were  the  same  to  me. 

'  Traveller,  wouldst  thou  his  noblest  trophies  seek, 
Search  in  no  narrow  spot  obscure  for  those;  190 

The  sea  profound,  the  surface  of  all  land, 
Is  moulded  with  the  myriads  of  his  foes  "  .... 

O'er  a  dark  field  I  held  my  dubious  way, 

Where  Jack-a-Ianthorn  walk'd  his  lonely  round; 

Beneath  my  feet  substantial  darkness  lay,  195 

And  screams  were  heard  from  the  distemper'd  ground. 

Nor  look'd  I  back,  till  to  a  far-off  wood, 

Trembling  with  fear,  my  weary  feet  had  sped: 

Dark  was  the  night,  but  at  the  inchanted  dome 

I  saw  the  infernal  windows  flaming  red.  200 

And  from  within  the  howls  of  Death  I  heard, 
Cursing  the  dismal  night  that  gave  him  birth, 
Damning  his  ancient  sire  and  mother  sin, 
Who  at  the  gates  of  hell,  accursed,  brought  him  forth. 

(For  fancy  gave  to  my  enraptur'd  soul  205 

An  eagle's  eye,  with  keenest  glance  to  see; 
And  bade  those  distant  sounds  distinctly  roll, 
Which,  waking,  never  had  affected  me.) 

Oft  his  pale  breast  with  cruel  hand  he  smote, 

And,  tearing  from  his  limbs  a  winding-sheet,  210 

Roar'd  to  the  black  skies,  while  the  woods  around, 

As  wicked  as  himself,  his  words  repeat. 

Thrice  tow'rd  the  skies  his  meagre  arms  he  rear'd, 

Invok'd  all  hell  and  thunders  on  his  head, 

Bid  light'nings  fly,  earth  yawn,  and  tempests  roar,  215 

And  the  sea  wrap  him  in  its  oozy  bed. 

'  My  life  for  one  cool  draught!    O,  fetch  your  springs  I 
Can  one  unfeeling  to  my  woes  be  found  ? 
No  friendly  visage  comes  to  my  relief, 
But  ghosts  impend  and  spectre?  hover  round.  220 


I42  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"Though  humbled  now,  dishearten'd,  and  distrest, 
Yet,  when  admitted  to  the  peaceful  ground, 
With  heroes,  kings,  and  conquerors  I  shall  rest, 
Shall  sleep  as  safely  and  perhaps  as  sound." 

Dim  burnt  the  lamp;  and  now  the  phantom  Death  225 

Gave  his  last  groans  in  horror  and  despair: 
"All  hell  demands  me  hence!"  he  said,  and  tbrew 
The  red  lamp  hissing  through  the  midnight  air. 

Trembling,  across  the  plain  my  course  I  held, 

And  found  the  grave-yard,  loitering  through  the  gloom,          230 

And  in  the  midst  a  hell-red,  wandering  light, 

Walking  in  fiery  circles  round  the  tomb 

At  distance  far,  approaching  to  the  tomb, 

By  lamps  and  lanthorns  guided  through  the  shade, 

A  coal-black  chariot  hurried  through  the  gloom,  235 

Spectres  attending,  in  black  weeds  array'd, 

Whose  woeful  forms  yet  chill  my  soul  with  dread: 

Each  wore  a  vest  in  Stygian  chambers  wove, 

Death's  kindred  all — Death's  horses  they  bestrode, 

And  gallop'd  fiercely,  as  the  chariot  drove.  240 

Each  horrid  face  a  grizly  mask  conceal'd; 
Their  busy  eyes  shot  terror  to  my  soul 
As  now  and  then,  by  the  pale  lanthorn's  glare, 
I  saw  them  for  their  parted  friend  condole. 

Before  the  herse  Death's  chaplain  seem'd  to  go,  245 

Who  strove  to  comfort,  what  he  could,  the  dead; 
Talk'd  much  of  Satan  and  the  land  of  woe, 
And  many  a  chapter  from  the  scriptures  read. 

At  last  he  rais'd  the  swelling  anthem  high; 

In  dismal  numbers  seem'd  he  to  complain:  250 

The  captive  tribes  that  by  Euphrates  wept, 

Their  song  was  jovial  to  his  dreary  strain. 

That  done,  they  plac'd  the  carcase  in  the  tomb. 

To  dust  and  dull  oblivion  now  resign'd; 

Then  turn'd  the  chariot  tow'rd  the  House  of  Night,  255 

Which  soon  flew  off  and  left  no  trace  behind. 


PHILIP  FREXEAU  143 


But  as  I  stoop'd  to  write  the  appointed  verse, 
Swifter  than  thought  the  airy  scene  decay 'd; 
Blushing  the  morn  arose,  and  from  the  east 
With  her  gay  streams  of  light  dispelPd  the  shade.  260 

About  1776.  1779,  1786. 

FROM 

THE  BRITISH  PRISON  SHIP 

Two  hulks  on  Hudson's  stormy  bosom  lie, 

Two  farther  south  affront  the  pitying  eye: 

There  the  black  SCORPION  at  her  mooring  rides, 

There  SxROitBOLO  swings  yielding  to  the  tides; 

Here  bulky  JERSEY  fills  a  larger  space,  5 

And  HUNTER,  to  all  hospitals  disgrace. 

Thou,  SCORPION,  fatal  to  thy  crowded  throng, 

Dire  theme  of  horror  and  Plutonian  song, 

Requir'st  my  lay — thy  sultry  decks  I  know, 

And  all  the  torments  that  exist  below.  10 

The  briny  wave  that  Hudson's  bosom  fills 

Drain'd  through  her  bottom  in  a  thousand  rills. 

Rotten  and  old,  replete  with  sighs  and  groans, 

Scarce  on  the  waters  she  sustain'd  her  bones. 

Here,  doom'd  to  toil  or  founder  in  the  tide,  15 

At  the  moist  pumps  incessantly  we  plyM; 

Here,  doom'd  to  starve,  like  famish 'd  dogs  we  tore 

The  scant  allowance  that  our  tyrants  bore. 

Remembrance  shudders  at  this  scene  of  fears: 
Still  in  my  view  some  English  brute  appears,  20 

Some  base-born  Hessian  slave  walks  threat'ning  by, 
Some  servile  Scot  with  murder  in  his  eye 
Still  haunts  my  sight,  as  vainly  they  bemoan 
Rebellions  manag'd  so  unlike  their  own. 
O  may  I  never  feel  the  poignant  pain  25 

To  live  subjected  to  such  fiends  again — 
Stewards  and  Hates  that  hostile  Britain  bore. 
Cut  from  the  gallows  on  their  native  shore; 
Their  ghastly  looks  and  vengeance-beaming  eyes 
Still  to  my  view  in  dismal  colours  rise.  :  a 

O  may  I  ne'er  review  these  dire  abodes, 
These  piles  for  slaughter,  floating  on  the  floods. 


144  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  you  that  o'er  the  troubled  ocean  go, 
Strike  not  your  standards  to  this  miscreant  foe: 
Better  the  greedy  wave  should  swallow  all,  35 

Better  to  meet  the  death-conducted  ball, 
Better  to  sleep  on  ocean's  deepest  bed, 
At  once  destroy'd  and  number'd  with  the  dead, 
Than  thus  to  perish  in  the  face  of  day, 
Where  twice  ten  thousand  deaths  one  death  delay.  40 

1781. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  BRAVE  AMERICANS 

UNDER  GENERAL  GREENE,  IN  SOUTH  CAROLINA,  WHO  FELL  IN  THE  ACTION  OF 
SEPTEMBER    8,    1781 

At  EUTAW  springs  the  valiant  died; 

Their  limbs  with  dust  are  covered  o'er: 
Weep  on,  ye  springs,  your  tearful  tide; 

How  many  heroes  are  no  more! 

If,  in  this  wreck  of  ruin  they  5 

Can  yet  be  thought  to  claim  a  tear, 
O  smite  your  gentle  breast,  and  say 
"The  friends  of  freedom  slumber  here." 

Thou  who  shalt  trace  this  bloody  plain, 

If  goodness  rules  thy  generous  breast,  ro 

Sigh  for  the  wasted  rural  reign, 

Sigh  for  the  shepherds  sunk  to  rest. 

Stranger,  their  humble  graves  adorn; 

You  too  may  fall,  and  ask  a  tear: 
T  is  not  the  beauty  of  the  morn  jr 

That  proves  the  evening  shall  be  clear. 

They  saw  their  injured  country's  woe; 

The  flaming  town,  the  wasted  field: 
Then  rushed  to  meet  the  insulting  foe; 

They  took  the  spear — but  left  the  shield.  2* 

Led  by  thy  conquering  genius,  GREENE, 

The  Britons  they  compelled  to  fly; 
None  distant  viewed  the  fatal  plain, 

None  grieved  in  such  a  cause  to  die. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  145 


But  like  the  Parthian  famed  of  old,  25 

Who,  flying,  still  their  arrows  threw, 
These  routed  Britons,  full  as  bold, 

Retreated,  and  retreating  slew. 

Now  rest  in  peace  our  patriot  band; 

Though  far  from  Nature's  limits  thrown,  30 

We  trust  they  find  a  happier  land, 

A  brighter  sunshine  of  their  own. 
1781.  1781. 


FROM 

THE  POLITICAL  BALANCE 

As  Jove  the  Olympian  (who  both  I  and  you  know 
Was  brother  to  Neptune  and  husband  to  Juno) 
Was  lately  reviewing  his  papers  of  state, 
He  happened  to  light  on  the  records  of  FATE. 

In  Alphabet  order  this  volume  was  written,  5 

So  he  opened  at  B,  for  the  article  "Britain": 
"She  struggles  so  well,"  said  the  god,  "I  will  see 
What  the  sisters  in  Pluto's  dominions  decree." 

And  first  on  the  top  of  a  column  he  read 
"Of  a  king  with  a  mighty  soft  place  in  his  head,  ic 

Who  should  join  in  his  temper  the  ass  and  the  mule, 
The  third  of  his  name,  and  by  far  the  worst  fool.".  .  .  . 

So  Jupiter  read,  a  god  of  first  rank, 

And  still  had  read  on,  but  he  came  to  a  blank: 

For  the  Fates  had  neglected  the  rest  to  reveal —  15 

They  either  forgot  it,  or  chose  to  conceal. 

When  a  leaf  is  torn  out,  or  a  blot  on  a  page 

That  pleases  our  fancy,  we  fly  in  a  rage; 

So,  curious  to  know  what  the  Fates  would  say  next, 

No  wonder  if  Jove,  disappointed,  was  vext.  20 

But  still,  as  true  genius  not  frequently  fails, 
He  glanced  at  the  Virgin,  and  thought  of  the  Scales, 
And  said,  "To  determine  the  will  of  the  Fates, 
One  scale  shall  weigh  Britain,  the  other  the  States." 


146  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Then  turning  to  Vulcan,  his  maker  of  thunder,  25 

Said  he,  "My  dear  Vulcan,  I  pray  you  look  yonder: 
Those  creatures  are  tearing  each  other  to  pieces, 
And  instead  of  abating  the  carnage  increases. 

"Now  as  you  are  a  blacksmith,  and  lusty  stout  ham-eater, 
You  must  make  me  a  globe  of  a  shorter  diameter —  30 

•   The  world  in  abridgement  and  just  as  it  stands, 
With  all  its  proportions  of  water  and  lands. 

"But  its  various  divisions  must  so  be  designed 
That  I  can  unhinge  it  whene'er  I  Ve  a  mind — 
How  else  should  I  know  what  the  portions  will  weigh,          35 
Or  which  of  the  combatants  carry  the  day?" 

Old  Vulcan  complied  (we  Ve  no  reason  to  doubt  it), 

So  he  put  on  his  apron  and  strait  went  about  it; 

Made  center,  and  circles  as  round  as  a  pancake, 

And  here  the  Pacific  and  there  the  Atlantic 40 

At  length,  to  discourage  all  stupid  pretensions, 
Jove  looked  at  the  globe  and  approved  its  dimensions, 
And  cried  in  a  transport,  "Why,  what  have  we  here  ? 
Friend  Vulcan,  it  is  a  most  beautiful  sphere! 

"Now  while  I  am  busy  in  taking  apart  45 

This  globe  that  is  formed  with  such  exquisite  art, 
Go,  Hermes,  to  Libra  (you  're  one  of  her  gallants), 
And  ask  in  my  name  for  the  loan  of  her  balance." 

Away  posted  Hermes,  as  swift  as  the  gales, 

And  as  swiftly  returned  with  the  ponderous  scales;  50 

And  hung  them  aloft  to  a  beam  in  the  air, 

So  equally  poised  they  had  turned  with  a  hair. 

Now  Jove  to  COLUMBIA  his  shoulders  applied; 
But,  aiming  to  lift  her,  his  strength  she  defied: 
Then,  turning  about  to  their  godships,  he  says,  55 

"A  BODY  so  VAST  is  not  easy  to  raise; 

"  But  if  you  assist  me,  I  still  have  a  notion 
Our  forces  united  can  put  her  in  motion 
And  swing  her  aloft,  though  alone  I  might  fail, 
And  place  her,  in  spite  of  her  bulk,  in  our  scale.  60 


PHILIP  FRENEAU 


147 


"If  six  years  together  the  Congress  have  strove, 
And  more  than  divided  the  empire  with  Jove, 
With  a  JOVE  like  myself,  who  am  nine  times  as  great, 
You  can  join,  like  their  soldiers,  to  heave  up  this  weight." 

So  to  it  they  went,  with  handspikes  and  levers,                     65 
And  upward  she  sprung,  with  her  mountains  and  rivers, 
Rocks,  cities,  and  islands,  deep  waters  and  shallows, 
Ships,  armies,  and  forests,  high  heads  and  fine  fellows 

Then,  searching  about  with  his  fingers  for  Britain, 
Thought  he,  "This  same  island  I  cannot  well  hit  on;  70 

The  devil  take  him  who  first  called  her  the  GREAT — 
If  she  was,  she  is  vastly  diminished  of  late." 

Like  a  man  that  is  searching  his  thigh  for  a  flea, 

He  peeped  and  he  fumbled,  but  nothing  could  see. 

At  last  he  exclaimed,  "I  am  surely  upon  it —  75 

I  think  I  have  hold  of  a  Highlander's  bonnet." 

But  finding  his  error,  he  said  with  a  sigh, 
"This  bonnet  is  only  the  island  of  Skie!" 
So  away  to  his  namesake  the  PLANET  he  goes, 
And  borrowed  two  moons  to  hang  on  his  nose.  80 

Through  these,  as  through  glasses,  he  saw  her  quite  clear, 
And  in  raptures  cried  out,  "I  have  found  her — she  's  here! 
If  this  be  not  Britain,  then  call  me  an  ass — 
She  looks  like  a  gem  in  an  ocean  of  glass".  .  .  . 

Then  he  raised  her  aloft;  but — to  shorten  our  tale —  85 

She  looked  like  a  CLOD  in  the  opposite  scale: 
Britannia  so  small,  and  Columbia  so  large — 
A  ship  of  first  rate,  and  a  ferryman's  barge. 

Cried  Pallas  to  Vulcan,  "Why,  Jove  's  in  a  dream. 
Observe  how  he  watches  the  turn  of  the  beam!  oo 

Was  ever  a  mountain  outweighed  by  a  grain  ? 
Or  what  is  a  drop  when  compared  to  the  main  ?" 

But  Momus  alledged,  "  In  my  humble  opinion, 
You  should  add  to  Great-Britain  her  foreign  dominion; 
When  this  is  appended,  perhaps  she  will  rise,  95 

And  equal  her  rival  in  weight  and  in  size." 


I48  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"Alas,"  said  the  monarch,  "your  project  is  vain: 
But  little  is  left  of  her  foreign  domain; 
And,  scattered  about  in  the  liquid  expanse, 
That  little  is  left  to  the  mercy  of  France.  100 

"However,  we  '11  lift  them,  and  give  her  fair  play." 
And  soon  in  the  scale  with  their  mistress  they  lay; 
But  the  gods  were  confounded  and  struck  with  surprise, 
And  Vulcan  could  hardly  believe  his  own  eyes: 

For,  such  was  the  purpose  and  guidance  of  fate,  105 

Her  foreign  dominions  diminished  her  weight; 

By  which  it  appeared,  to  Britain's  disaster, 

Her  foreign  possessions  were  changing  their  master. 

Then,  as  he  replaced  them,  said  Jove  with  a  smile, 
"COLUMBIA  shall  never  be  ruled  by  an  isle;  no 

But  vapours  and  darkness  around  her  may  rise, 
And  tempests  conceal  her  a- while  from  our  eyes. 

"  So  locusts  in  Egypt  their  squadrons  display, 
And,  rising,  disfigure  the  face  of  the  day; 
So  the  moon,  at  her  full,  has  a  frequent  eclipse,  115 

And  the  sun  in  the  ocean  diurnally  dips. 

"Then  cease  your  endeavours,  ye  vermin  of  Britain" 
(And  here  in  derision  their  island  he  spit  on) : 

"  T  is  madness  to  seek  what  you  never  can  find, 
Or  to  think  of  uniting  what  Nature  disjoined.  120 

"But  still  you  may  flutter  awhile  with  your  wings, 
And  spit  out  your  venom  and  brandish  your  stings: 
Your  hearts  are  as  black  and  as  bitter  as  gall, 
A  curse  to  mankind,  and  a  blot  on  the  BALL." 
1782.  '782- 

THE  WILD  HONEY  SUCKLE 

Fair  flower  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 
Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 
Untouched  thy  honied  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet: 

No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here,  5 

No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  149 


By  Nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 

And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 

And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by:  10 

Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes, 

Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms  that  must  decay, 

I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom; 

They  died — nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay, —  15 

The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom: 

Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn's  power 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came:  20 

If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 

For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same; 

The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 

The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 

I786. 

THE  INDIAN  BURYING  GROUND 

In  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 

I  still  my  old  opinion  keep: 
The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead 

Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands:  5 

The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 
Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 

And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast. 

His  imaged  birds  and  painted  bowl, 

And  venison  for  a  journey  dressed,  10 

Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul — 

ACTIVITY  that  knows  no  rest. 

His  bow  for  action  ready  bent, 

And  arrows  with  a  head  of  stone, 
Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent,  15 

And  not  the  old  ideas  gone. 


1 50  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Thou,  stranger,  that  shalt  come  this  way, 

No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit: 
Observe  the  swelling  turf,  and  say, 

"They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit."  20 

Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 

On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace 
(Now  wasted,  half,  by  wearing  rains) 

The  fancies  of  a  ruder  race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires,  25 

Beneath  whose  far-projecting  shade 
(And  which  the  shepherd  still  admires) 

The  children  of  the  forest  played. 

There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen, 

Pale  Shebah,  with  her  braided  hair,  3° 

And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen, 

To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews, 

In  habit  for  the  chase  arrayed, 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues,  35 

The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade. 

And  long  shall  timorous  fancy  see 

The  painted  chief  and  pointed  spear, 
And  Reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 

To  shadows  and  delusions  here.  4° 

1788. 

THE  NEW  ENGLAND  SABBATH-DAY  CHACE 

On  a  fine  Sunday  morning  I  mounted  my  steed, 
And  southward  from  HARTFORD  had  meant  to  proceed. 
My  baggage  was  stow'd  in  a  cart  very  snug, 
Which  RANGER,  the  gelding,  was  destined  to  lug; 
With  his  harness  and  buckles  he  loom'd  very  grand,  5 

And  was  drove  by  young  DARBY,  a  lad  of  the  land — 
On  land  or  on  water  most  handy  was  he, 
A  jockey  on  shore,  and  a  sailor  at  sea; 
He  knew  all  the  roads,  he  was  so  very  keen, 
And  the  Bible  by  heart,  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  10 

As  thus  I  jogg'd  on,  to  my  saddle  confined, 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  151 


With  Ranger  and  Darby  a  distance  behind, 

At  last  in  full  view  of  a  steeple  we  came, 

With  a  cock  on  the  spire  (I  suppose  he  was  game; 

A  dove  in  the  pulpit  may  suit  your  grave  people,  15 

But  always  remember — a  cock  on  the  steeple). 

Cries  Darby,  "Dear  master,  I  beg  you  to  stay; 

Believe  me,  there  's  danger  in  driving  this  way: 

Our  deacons  on  Sundays  have  power  to  arrest 

And  lead  us  to  church — if  your  honour  thinks  best;  20 

Though  still  I  must  do  them  the  justice  to  tell 

They  would  choose  you  should  pay  them  the  fine,  full  as  well." 

"The  fine,"  said  I,  "Darby,  how  much  may  it  be — 
A  shilling  or  sixpence  ?     Why,  now,  let  me  see; 
Three  shillings  are  al!  the  small  pence  that  remain,  25 

And  to  change  a  half  joe  would  be  rather  PROFANE. 
Is  it  more  than  three  shillings,  the  fine  that  you  speak  on  ? 
What  say  you,  good  Darby,  will  that  serve  the  deacon  ?" 

"Three  shillings!"  cried  Darby,  "why,  master,  you're  jesting  1 
Let  us  lu/  while  we  can  and  make  sure  of  our  westing.  30 

Forty  shillings,  excuse  me,  is  too  much  to  pay — 
It  would  take  my  month's  wages — that  's  all  I  've  to  say. 
By  taking  this  road  that  inclines  to  the  right, 
The  squire  and  the  sexton  may  bid  us  good  night: 
If  once  to  old  Ranger  I  give  up  the  rein,  35 

The  parson  himself  may  pursue  us  in  vain." 

"Not  I,  my  good  Darby,"  I  answer'd  the  lad. 
'Leave  the  church  on  the  left?  they  would  think  we  were  mad. 
I  would  sooner  rely  on  the  heels  of  my  steed, 
And  pass  by  them  all  like  a  Jehu  indeed.  40 

As  long  as  I  'm  able  to  lead  in  the  race, 
Old  Ranger,  the  gelding,  will  go  a  good  pace: 
As  the  deacon  pursues,  he  will  fly  like  a  swallow, 
And  you  in  the  cart  must  undoubtedly  follow." 

Then,  approaching  the  church,  as  we  pass'd  by  the  door,       45 
The  sexton  peep'd  out,  with  a  saint  or  two  more. 
A  deacon  came  forward  and  waved  us  his  hat, 
A  signal  to  drop  him  some  money — mind  that! 

"Now,  Darby,"  I  halloo'd,  "be  ready  to  skip! 
Ease  off  the  curb  bridle — give  Ranger  the  whip!  50 

While  you  have  the  rear,  and  myself  lead  the  way, 
No  doctor  or  deacon  shall  catch  us  this  day." 


152  AMERICAN  POEMS 


By  this  time  the  deacon  had  mounted  his  poney, 
And  chaced  for  the  sake  of  our  souls  and— our  money. 
The  saint,  as  he  followed,  cried,  "Stop  them,  halloo  1"  55 

As  swift  as  he  followed,  as  swiftly  we  flew. 

"Ah  master,"  said  Darby,  "I  very  much  fear 
We  must  drop  him  some  money  to  check  his  career: 
He  is  gaining  upon  us  and  waves  with  his  hat — 
There  's  nothing,  dear  master,  will  stop  him  but  that.  60 

Remember  the  Beaver  (you  well  know  the  fable), 
Who,  flying  the  hunters  as  long  as  he  's  able, 
When  he  finds  that  his  efforts  can  nothing  avail, 
But  death  and  the  puppies  are  close  at  his  tail, 
Instead  of  desponding  at  such  a  dead  lift,  65 

He  bites  off  their  object,  and  makes  a  free  gift: 
Since  fortune  all  hope  of  escaping  denies, 
Better  give  them  a  little  than  lose  the  whole  prize." 

But  scarce  had  he  spoke  when  we  came  to  a  place 
Whose  muddy  condition  concluded  the  chace:  70 

Down  settled  the  cart,  and  old  Ranger  stuck  fast. 
"Aha!"  said  the  Saint,  "Have  I  catch 'd  ye  at  last?" 
Ccetera  desunt. 

1790. 

THE  REPUBLICAN  GENIUS  OF  EUROPE 

Emperors  and  kings  1  in  vain  you  strive 

Your  torments  to  conceal. 
The  age  is  come  that  shakes  your  thrones, 
Tramples  in  dust  despotic  crowns, 

And  bids  the  sceptre  fail.  5 

In  western  worlds  the  flame  began; 

From  thence  to  France  it  flew; 
Through  Europe  now  it  takes  its  way, 
Beams  an  insufferable  day, 

And  lays  all  tyrants  low.  10 

Genius  of  France,  pursue  the  chace 

Till  Reason's  laws  restore 
Man  to  be  Man,  in  every  clime — • 
That  Being,  active,  great,  sublime, 

Debas'd  in  dust  no  more.  ic 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  153 


In  dreadful  pomp  he  takes  his  way 

O'er  ruin'd  crowns,  demolish'd  thrones: 
Pale  tyrants  shrink  before  his  blaze — 
Round  him  terrific  lightnings  play; 

With  eyes  of  fire  he  looks  them  through,  20 

Crushes  the  vile  despotic  crew, 
And  Pride  in  ruin  lays. 

I79S. 

ON  A  HONEY  BEE 

DRINKING   FROM    A   GLASS   OF   WINE   AND   DROWNED   THEREIN 

Thou  born  to  sip  the  lake  or  spring, 

Or  quaff  the  waters  of  the  stream, 

Why  hither  come  on  vagrant  wing  ? 

Does  Bacchus  tempting  seem — 

Did  he  for  you  this  glass  prepare  ?  5 

Will  I  admit  you  to  a  share  ? 

Did  storms  harrass  or  foes  perplex, 

Did  wasps  or  king-birds  bring  dismay, 

Did  wars  distress  or  labours  vex, 

Or  did  you  miss  your  way  ?  10 

A  better  seat  you  could  not  take 

Than  on  the  margin  of  this  lake. 

Welcome!     I  hail  you  to  my  glass; 

All  welcome  here  you  find: 

Here  let  the  cloud  of  trouble  pass,  15 

Here  be  all  care  resigned. 

This  fluid  never  fails  to  please, 

And  drown  the  griefs  of  men  or  bees. 

What  forced  you  here  we  cannot  know, 

And  you  will  scarcely  tell;  20 

But  cheery  we  would  have  you  go, 

And  bid  a  glad  farewell: 

On  lighter  wings  we  bid  you  fly; 

Your  dart  will  now  all  foes  defy. 

Yet  take  not,  oh,  too  deep  a  drink  25 

And  in  this  ocean  die; 

Here  bigger  bees  than  you  might  sink, 


IS4  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Even  bees  full  six  feet  high : 

Like  Pharoah,  then,  you  would  be  said 

To  perish  in  a  sea  of  red.  30 

Do  as  you  please,  your  will  is  mine; 

Enjoy  it  without  fear; 

And  your  grave  will  be  this  glass  of  wine, 

Your  epitaph  a  tear. 

Go  take  your  seat  in  Charon's  boat:  35 

We  '11  tell  the  hive  you  died  afloat. 

1809. 


TO  A  CATY-DID 

In  a  branch  of  willow  hid, 
Sings  the  evening  Caty-did: 
From  the  lofty  locust  bough 
Feeding  on  a  drop  of  dew, 

In  her  suit  of  green  array 'd,  5 

Hear  her  singing  in  the  shade, 
"Caty-did,  Caty-did,  Caty-did!" 

While  upon  a  leaf  you  tread, 
Or  repose  your  little  head 

On  your  sheet  of  shadows  laid,  ro 

All  the  day  you  nothing  said: 
Half  the  night  your  cheery  tongue 
Revell'd  out  its  little  song, 

Nothing  else  but  "Caty-did." 

From  your  lodgings  on  the  leaf  15 

Did  you  utter  joy  or  grief  ? 
Did  you  only  mean  to  say, 
1 I  have  had  my  summer's  day, 
And  am  passing  soon  away 
To  the  grave  of  Caty-did" —  20 

Poor,  unhappy  Caty-did! 

But  you  would  have  utter'd  more 
Had  you  known  of  nature's  power: 
From  the  world  when  you  retreat, 
And  a  leaf  's  your  winding  sheet,  25 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  155 


Long  before  your  spirit  fled, 
Who  can  tell  but  nature  said, 
"Live  again,  my  Caty-did! 

Live,  and  chatter  'Caty-did.'" 

Tell  me,  what  did  Caty  do  ?  30 

Did  she  mean  to  trouble  you  ? 
Why  was  Caty  not  forbid 
To  trouble  little  Caty-did  ? 
Wrong,  indeed,  at  you  to  fling, 

Hurting  no  one  while  you  sing,  35 

"Caty-did  I     Caty-did  1     Caty-did!" 

Why  continue  to  complain  ? 
Caty  tells  me  she  again 
Will  not  give  you  plague  or  pain; 
Caty  says  you  may  be  hid —  40 

Caty  will  not  go  to  bed 
While  you  sing  us  "Caty-did! 

Caty-did!     Caty-did!     Caty-did  I" 

But  while  singing  you  forgot 

To  tell  us  what  did  Caty  not:  45 

Caty  did  not  think  of  cold, 
Flocks  retiring  to  the  fold, 
Winter,  with  his  wrinkles  old, 
Winter,  that  yourself  foretold 

When  you  gave  us  "Caty-did."  50 

Stay  securely  in  your  nest: 
Caty  now  will  do  her  best, 
All  she  can,  to  make  you  blest. 
But  you  want  no  human  aid: 

Nature  when  she  form'd  you  said,  55 

"Independent  you  are  made, 
My  dear  little  Caty-did; 
Soon  yourself  must  disappear 
With  the  verdure  of  the  year" — 
And  to  go  we  know  not  where,  60 

With  your  song  of  "Caty-did." 

1815. 


156  AMERICAN  POEMS 


ROBERT  TREAT  PAINE 

FROM 

THE  RULING  PASSION 

Life  is  a  print-shop,  where  the  eye  may  trace 

A  different  outline  mark'd  in  every  face: 

From  chiefs  who  laurels  reap  in  fields  of  blood, 

Down  to  the  hind  who  tills  those  fields  for  food; 

From  the  lorn  nymph  in  cloister'd  abbey  pent,  c 

Whose  friars  teach  to  love  and  to  repent, 

To  the  young  captive  in  the  HARAM'S  bower, 

Blest  for  a  night,  and  empress  of  an  hour; 

From  ink's  retailers  perch 'd  in  garret  high, 

Cobweb'd  around  with  many  a  mouldy  lie,  I0 

Down  to  the  pauper's  brat  who,  luckless  wight, 

Deep  in  the  cellar  first  receiv'd  the  light; 

All,  all  impell'd,  as  various  passions  move, 

To  write,  to  starve,  to  conquer,  or  to  lovel 

All  join  to  shift  life's  versicolor'd  scenes,  j^ 

Priests,  poets,  fiddlers,  courtesans,  and  queens. 

And  be  it  pride  or  dress  or  wealth  or  fame, 

The  acting  principle  is  ne'er  the  same; 

Each  takes  a  different  rout,  o'er  hill  or  vale, 

The  tangled  forest  or  the  greensward  dale.  2o 

But  they  who  chiefly  crowd  the  field  are  those 
Who  live  by  fashion — CONSTABLES  and  BEAUS. 
The  first,  I  ween,  are  men  of  high  report, 
The  LAW'S  s/ajf-officers,  and  known  at  court. 
The  last,  sweet  elves,  whose  rival  graces  vie  25 

To  wield  the  snuff-box  or  enact  a  sigh, 
To  Fashion's  gossamer  their  lives  devote, 
The  frize,  the  cane,  the  cravat,  and  the  coat; 
In  taste  unpolish'd,  yet  in  ton  precise, 

They  sleep  at  theatres  and  wake  at  dice,  30 

While,  like  the  pilgrim's  scrip  or  soldier's  pack, 
They  carry  all  their  fortune  on  their  back. 

From  FOPS  we  turn  to  PEDANTS — deep  and  dull, 
Grave  without  sense,  overflowing  yet  not  full. 
See  the  lank  BOOK-WORM,  pil'd  with  lumbering  lore,  35 

Wrinkled  in  Latin  and  in  Greek  fourscore, 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE  157 

With  toil  incessant  thumbs  the  ancient  page, 

Now  blots  a  hero,  now  turns  down  a  sage. 

O'er  learning's  field  with  leaden  eye  he  strays, 

Mid  busts  of  fame  and  monuments  of  praise;  40 

With  Gothic  foot  he  treads  on  flowers  of  taste, 

Yet  stoops  to  pick  the  pebbles  from  the  waste. 

Profound  in  trifles,  he  can  tell  how  short 

Were  ^Esop's  legs,  how  large  was  TULLY'S  wart; 

And  scal'd  by  GUNTER,  marks  with  joy  absurd  45 

The  cut  of  HOMER'S  cloak  and  EUCLID'S  beard. 

Thus  through  the  weary  watch  of  sleepless  night 

This  learned  ploughman  plods  in  piteous  plight; 

Till  the  dim  taper  takes  French  leave  to  doze, 

And  the  fat  folio  tumbles  on  his  toes.  50 

1797-  1797- 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE 

STANZAS 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground — to  die. 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed  5 

The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray;  10 

Its  hold  is  frail,  its  date  is  brief, 

Restless,  and  soon  to  pass  away. 
Yet  ere  that  leaf  shaH  fall  and  fade 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree —  15 

But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  mel 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 

Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat 


158  AMERICAN  POEMS 


All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand. 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 
On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea — • 
But  none,  alas,  shall  mourn  for  me! 

About  1815. 


JOHN  NEAL 

FROM 

THE  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA 

A    NIGHT-ATTACK    BY   CAVALRY 

Observed  ye  the  cloud  on  that  mountain 's  dim  green 

So  heavily  hanging,  as  if  it  had  been 

The  tent  of  the  Thunderer,  the  chariot  of  one 

Who  dare  not  appear  in  the  blaze  of  the  sun  ? 

'T  is  descending  to  earth,  and  some  horsemen  are  now  5 

In  a  line  of  dark  mist  coming  down  from  its  brow. 

'T  is  a  helmeted  band;   from  the  hills  they  descend 

Like  the  monarchs  of  storm  when  the  forest  trees  bend. 

No  scimitars  swing  as  they  gallop  along, 

No  clattering  hoof  falls  sudden  and  strong,  10 

No  trumpet  is  filled  and  no  bugle  is  blown, 

No  banners  abroad  on  the  wind  are  thrown, 

No  shoutings  are  heard  and  no  cheerings  are  given, 

No  waving  of  red-flowing  plumage  to  heaven, 

No  flashing  of  blades  and  no  loosening  of  reins,  15 

No  neighing  of  steeds  and  no  tossing  of  manes, 

No  furniture  trailing,  or  warrior  helms  bowing, 

Or  crimson  and  gold-spotted  drapery  flowing; 

But  they  speed  like  coursers  whose  hoofs  are  shod 

With  a  silent  shoe  from  the  loosened  sod 20 

Dark  and  chill  is  the  sky,  and  the  clouds  gather  round; 
There  's  nought  to  be  seen,  yet  there  comes  a  low  sound 
As  if  something  were  near  that  would  pass  unobserved. 
O,  if  't  is  that  band,  may  their  right-arms  be  nerved! 
Hark,  a  challenge  is  given!  a  rash  charger  neighs —  25 

And  a  trumpet  is  blown — and  lo,  there  's  a  blaze — 
And  a  clashing  of  sabres  is  heard,  and  a  shout 


JOHN  NEAL 


159 


Like  a  hurried  order  goes  passing  about; 

And  unfurling  banners  are  tossed  to  the  sky 

As  struggling  to  float  on  the  wind  passing  by;  30 

And  unharness'd  war-steeds  are  crowding  together, 

The  horseman's  thick  plume  and  the  foot-soldier's  feather. 

The  battle  is  up!  and  the  thunder  is  pealing, 

And  squadrons  of  cavalry  coursing  and  wheeling 

And  line  after  line  in  their  light  are  revealing.  35 

One  troop  of  high  helms  thro'  the  fight  urge  their  way, 

Unbroken  and  stern,  like  a  ship  thro'  the  spray: 

Their  pistols  speak  quick,  and  their  blades  are  all  bare, 

And  the  sparkles  of  steely  encounter  are  there. 

Away  they  still  speed!  with  one  impulse  they  bound,    40 
With  one  impulse  alike,  as  their  foes  gather  round, 
Undismayed,  undisturbed;  and  above  all  the  rest 
One  rides  o'er  the  strife  like  a  mane  o'er  its  crest, 
And  holds  on  his  way  thro'  the  scimitars  there 
All  plunging  in  light,  while  the  slumbering  air  45 

Shakes  wide  with  the  rolling  artillery-peal. 
The  tall  one  is  first;  and  his  followers  deal 
Around  and  around  their  desperate  blows, 
Like  the  army  of  shadows  above  when  it  goes 
With  the  smiting  of  shields  and  the  clapping  of  wings,          50 
When  the  red-crests  shake  and  the  storm-pipe  sings, 
When  the  cloud-flag  unfurls  and  the  death-bugles  sound, 
When  the  monarchs  of  space  on  their  dark  chargers  bound, 
And  the  shock  of  their  cavalry  comes  in  the  night 
With  furniture  flashing  and  weapons  of  light.  55 

So  travelled  this  band  in  its  pomp  and  its  might. 

Away  they  have  gone!  and  their  path  is  all  red, 
Hedged  in  by  two  lines  of  the  dying  and  dead — 
By  bosoms  that  burst  unrevenged  in  the  strife, 
By  swords  that  yet  shake  in  the  passing  of  life;  60 

For  so  swift  had  that  pageant  of  darkness  sped. 
So  like  a  trooping  of  cloud-mounted  dead, 
That  the  flashing  reply  of  the  foe  that  was  cleft 
But  fell  on  the  shadows  those  troopers  had  left. 
Far  and  away  they  are  coursing  again  65 

O'er  the  clouded  hill  and  the  darkened  plain; 
Now  choosing  the  turf  for  their  noiseless  route, 
Now  where  the  wet  sand  is  strown  thickest  about, 


160  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Streams  their  long  line:  like  a  mist  troop  they  ride 

In  a  winding  cloud  o'er  the  near  mountain's  side,  70 

While  a  struggling  moon  throws  a  lustre  as  dim 

As  a  sepulchre's  lamp,  and  the  vapours  that  swim 

O'er  the  hills  and  the  heavens  divide  as  they  fly — 

The  videttes  of  winds  that  are  stationed  on  high. 

LAKE   ONTARIO 

Here  sleeps  ONTARIO.     Old  Ontario,  haill 

Unawed  by  conquering  prow  or  pirate  sail, 

Still  heaving  in  thy  freedom,  still  unchained, 

Still  swelling  to  the  skies,  still  unprofaned, 

As  when  thy  earliest,  freest  children  flew  5 

Like  hawks  to  battle,  when  the  swift  canoe 

From  every  shore  went  dipping  o'er  the  tide 

Like  birds  that,  stooping  from  the  far  cliff,  ride 

A  moment  on  the  billow,  shriek  and  rise 

With  loaded  talons,  wheeling  to  the  skies.  10 

The  heaven's  blue  counterpart,  the  murmuring  home 

Of  spirits  shipwrecked  in  the  ocean-foam, 

Reflector  of  the  arch  that  's  o'er  thee  bent, 

Thou  watery  sky  thou  liquid  firmament! 

Mirror  of  garland- weaving  Solitude:  15 

The  wild  festoon,  the  cliff,  the  hanging  wood, 

The  soaring  eagle  and  the  wing  of  light, 

The  sunny  plumage  and  the  starry  flight 

Of  dazzling  myriads  in  a  cloudless  night. 

Peace  to  thy  bosom,  dark  Ontario!  20 

For  ever  thus  may  thy  free  waters  flow 
In  their  rude  loveliness;  thy  lonely  shore 
For  ever  echo  to  the  sullen  roar 
Of  thine  own  deep;   thy  cliffs  for  ever  ring 
With  calling  wild  men  in  their  journeying,  25 

The  savage  chant,  the  panther's  smothered  cry 
That  from  her  airy  height  goes  thrilling  by. 
Be  ever  thus,  as  now,  magnificent 
In  savage  Nature's  pomp,  unbowed,  unbent, 
And  thou  wilt  ever  be  omnipotent!  3° 

THE   HOUR   OF   QUIET   ECSTACY 

It  is  that  hour  of  quiet  ecstacy 

When  every  ruffling  wind  that  passes  by 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE  161 

The  sleeping  leaf  makes  busiest  minstrelsy; 
When  all  at  once  amid  the  quivering  shade 
Millions  of  diamond  sparklers  are  betrayed;  5 

When  dry  leaves  rustle,  and  the  whistling  song 
Of  keen-tuned  grass  comes  piercingly  along; 
When  windy  pipes  are  heard,  and  many  a  lute 
Is  touched  amid  the  skies  and  then  is  mute; 
When  even  the  foliage  on  the  glittering  steep  10 

Of  feathery  bloom  is  whispering  in  its  sleep; 
When  all  the  garlands  of  the  precipice, 
Shedding  their  blossoms,  in  their  moonlight  bliss 
Are  floating  loosely  on  the  eddying  air 

And  breathing  out  their  fragrant  spirits  there,  15 

And  all  their  braided  tresses,  fluttering  bright, 
Are  sighing  faintly  to  the  shadowy  light; 
When  every  cave  and  grot  and  bower  and  lake 
And  drooping  floweret-bell  are  all  awake; 
When  starry  eyes  are  burning  on  the  cliff  20 

Of  many  a  crouching  tyrant,  too,  as  if 
Such  melodies  were  grateful  even  to  him; 
When  life  is  loveliest,  and  the  blue  skies  swim 
In  lustre  warm  as  sunshine  but  more  dim; 
When  all  the  holy  sentinels  of  night  25 

Step  forth  to  watch  in  turn  and  worship  by  their  light. 
1818.  1818. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE 

FROM 

THE  CULPRIT  FAY 

T  is  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell: 
The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well; 
He  has  counted  them  all  with  click  and  stroke 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain  oak, 
And  he  has  awakened  the  sentry  elve 

Who  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted  tree, 
To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve, 

And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry; 
Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell 
('T  was  made  of  the  white  snail's  pearly  shell) — 


1 62  AMERICAN  POEMS 


'Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well! 
Hither,  hither,  wing  your  way! 
'T  is  the  dawn  of  the  fairy-day." 

They  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green, 

They  creep  from  the  mullen's  velvet  screen;  15 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 
From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touched  trees, 

Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb  hammocks  high. 
And  rocked  about  in  the  evening  breeze; 

Some  from  the  hum-bird's  downy  nest —  20 

They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 

And,  pillowed  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow  breast, 
Had  slumbered  there  till  the  charmed  hour; 

Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 
With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid;  25 

And  some  had  opened  the  four-o'clock, 
And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 

And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade, 
Above,  below,  on  every  side, 

Their  little  minim  forms  arrayed  30 

In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride. 

They  come  not  now  to  print  the  lea, 

In  freak  and  dance  around  the  tree, 

Or  at  the  mushroom  board  to  sup 

And  drink  the  dew  from  the  buttercup.  35 

A  scene  of  sorrow  waits  them  now, 

For  an  Ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow: 

He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 

And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade; 

He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew,  40 

And  sunned  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 

Fanned  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 

Played  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 

And,  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 

Forgot  the  lily-king's  behest.  45 

For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 

To  the  elfin  court  must  haste  away; 
And  now  they  stand  expectant  there. 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  culprit  Pay. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE  163 

The  throne  was  reared  upon  the  grass,  50 

Of  spice- wood  and  of  sassafras; 
On  pillars  of  mottled  tortoise-shell 

Hung  the  burnished  canopy, 
And  over  it  gorgeous  curtains  fell 

Of  the  tulip's  crimson  drapery.  55 

The  monarch  sat  on  his  judgment-seat, 

On  his  brow  the  crown  imperial  shone; 
The  prisoner  Fay  was  at  his  feet, 

And  his  peers  were  ranged  around  the  throne. 
He  waved  his  sceptre  in  the  air,  60 

He  looked  around  and  calmly  spoke; 
His  brow  was  grave  and  his  eye  severe, 

But  his  voice  in  a  softened  accent  broke: 

"Fairy!     Fairy!     list  and  mark! 

Thou  hast  broke  thine  elfin  chain;  65 

Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quenched  and  dark, 

And  thy  wings  are  dyed  with  a  deadly  stain; 
Thou  hast  sullied  thine  elfin  purity 

In  the  glance  of  a  mortal  maiden's  eye: 
Thou  hast  scorned  our  dread  decree,  70 

And  thou  shouldst  pay  the  forfeit  high, 
But  well  I  know  her  sinless  mind 

Is  pure  as  the  angel  forms  above, 
Gentle  and  meek,  and  chaste  and  kind, 

Such  as  a  spirit  well  might  love.  75 

Fairy!  had  she  spot  or  taint, 
Bitter  had  been  thy  punishment: 
Tied  to  the  hornet's  shardy  wings, 
Tossed  on  the  pricks  of  nettles'  stings, 
Or  seven  long  ages  doomed  to  dwell  80 

With  the  lazy  worm  in  the  walnut-shell; 
Or  every  night  to  writhe  and  bleed 
Beneath  the  tread  of  the  centipede; 
Or  bound  in  a  cobweb  dungeon  dim, 

Your  jailer  a  spider  huge  and  grim,  85 

Amid  the  carrion  bodies  to  lie 
Of  the  worm  and  the  bug  and  the  murdered  fly; 
These  it  had  been  your  lot  to  bear, 
Had  a  stain  been  found  on  the  earthly  fair. 


164  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Now  list  and  mark  our  mild  decree;  90 

Fairy,  this  your  doom  must  be: 

"Thou  shalt  seek  the  beach  of  sand 
Where  the  water  bounds  the  elfin  land; 
Thou  shalt  watch  the  oozy  brine 

Till  the  sturgeon  leaps  in  the  bright  moonshine;  95 

Then  dart  the  glistening  arch  below, 
And  catch  a  drop  from  his  silver  bow. 
The  water-sprites  will  wield  their  arms, 

And  dash  around  with  roar  and  rave; 
And  vain  are  the  woodland  spirits'  charms —  100 

They  are  the  imps  that  rule  the  wave. 
Yet  trust  thee  in  thy  single  might: 
If  thy  heart  be  pure  and  thy  spirit  right, 
Thou  shalt  win  the  warlock  fight.".  .  .  . 

The  goblin  marked  his  monarch  well;  105 

He  spake  not,  but  he  bowed  him  low; 
Then  plucked  a  crimson  colen-bell, 

And  turned  him  round  in  act  to  go. 
The  way  is  long,  he  cannot  fly, 

His  soiled  wing  has  lost  its  power;  no 

And  he  winds  adown  the  mountain  high 

For  many  a  sore  and  weary  hour: 
Through  dreary  beds  of  tangled  fern, 
Through  groves  of  nightshade  dark  and  dern, 
Over  the  grass  and  through  the  brake,  115 

Where  toils  the  ant  and  sleeps  the  snake; 

Now  over  the  violet's  azure  flush 
He  skips  along  in  lightsome  mood; 

And  now  he  thrids  the  bramble-bush, 
Till  its  points  are  dyed  in  fairy  blood;  120 

He  has  leaped  the  bog,  he  has  pierced  the  brier, 
He  has  swum  the  brook,  and  waded  the  mire, 
Till  his  spirits  sank  and  his  limbs  grew  weak, 
And  the  red  waxed  fainter  in  his  cheek. 
He  had  fallen  to  the  ground  outright,  125 

For  rugged  and  dim  was  his  onward  track, 
But  there  came  a  spotted  toad  in  sight, 

And  he  laughed  as  he  jumped  upon  her  back: 
He  bridled  her  mouth  with  a  silkweed  twist, 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE  165 

He  lashed  her  sides  with  an  osier  thong;  130 

And  now  through  evening's  dewy  mist 

With  leap  and  spring  they  bound  along, 
Till  the  mountain's  magic  verge  is  past, 
And  the  beach  of  sand  is  reached  at  last. 

Soft  and  pale  is  the  moony  beam,  135 

Moveless  still  the  glassy  stream; 
The  wave  is  clear,  the  beach  is  bright 

With  snowy  shells  and  sparkling  stones; 
The  shore-surge  comes  in  ripples  light, 

In  murmurings  faint  and  distant  moans;  140 

And  ever  afar  in  the  silence  deep 
Is  heard  the  splash  of  the  sturgeon's  leap, 
And  the  bend  of  his  graceful  bow  is  seen — 
A  glittering  arch  of  silver  sheen, 

Spanning  the  wave  of  burnished  blue,  145 

And  dripping  with  gems  of  the  river-dew. 

The  elfin  cast  a  glance  around, 

As  he  lighted  down  from  his  courser  toad, 
Then  round  his  breast  his  wings  he  wound, 

And  close  to  the  river's  brink  he  strode;  150 

He  sprang  on  a  rock,  he  breathed  a  prayer, 

Above  his  head  his  arms  he  threw, 
Then  tossed  a  tiny  curve  in  air, 

And  headlong  plunged  in  the  waters  blue. 

Up  sprung  the  spirits  of  the  waves,  155 

From  the  sea-silk  beds  in  their  coral  caves; 

With  snail-plate  armor  snatched  in  haste, 

They  speed  their  way  through  the  liquid  waste. 

Some  are  rapidly  borne  along 

On  the  mailed  shrimp  or  the  prickly  prong,  160 

Some  on  the  blood-red  leeches  glide, 

Some  on  the  stony  star-fish  ride, 

Some  on  the  back  of  the  lancing  squab, 

Some  on  the  sideling  soldier-crab, 

And  some  on  the  jellied  quarl  that  flings  165 

At  once  a  thousand  streamy  stings. 

They  cut  the  wave  with  the  living  oar, 


T66  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  hurry  on  to  the  moonlight  shore, 
To  guard  their  realms  and  chase  away 
The  footsteps  of  the  invading  Fay.  170 

Fearlessly  he  skims  along: 

His  hope  is  high  and  his  limbs  are  strong; 

He  spreads  his  arms  like  the  swallow's  wing, 

And  throws  his  feet  with  a  frog-like  fling; 

His  locks  of  gold  on  the  waters  shine,  175 

At  his  breast  the  tiny  foam-bees  rise, 
His  back  gleams  bright  above  the  brine, 

And  the  wake-line  foam  behind  him  lies. 
But  the  water-sprites  are  gathering  near 

To  check  his  course  along  the  tide;  180 

Their  warriors  come  in  swift  career 

And  hem  him  round  on  every  side: 
On  his  thigh  the  leech  has  fixed  his  hold, 
The  quarl's  long  arms  are  round  him  rolled, 
The  prickly  prong  has  pierced  his  skin,  185 

And  the  squab  has  thrown  his  javelin, 
The  gritty  star  has  rubbed  him  raw, 
And  the  crab  has  struck  with  his  giant  claw. 
He  howls  with  rage,  and  he  shrieks  with  pain; 
He  strikes  around,  but  his  blows  are  vain;  190 

Hopeless  is  the  unequal  fight: 
Fairy,  naught  is  left  but  flight. 

He  turned  him  round  and  fled  amain, 

With  hurry  and  dash,  to  the  beach  again; 

He  twisted  over  from  side  to  side,  IQ5 

And  laid  his  cheek  to  the  cleaving  tide; 

The  strokes  of  his  plunging  arms  are  fleet, 

And  with  all  his  might  he  flings  his  feet. 

But  the  water-sprites  are  round  him  still, 

To  cross  his  path  and  work  him  ill:  200 

They  bade  the  wave  before  him  rise; 

They  flung  the  sea-fire  in  his  eyes; 

And  they  stunned  his  ears  with  the  scallop-stroke, 

With  the  porpoise  heave  and  the  drum-fish  croak. 

Oh,  but  a  weary  wight  was  he  205 

When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  dog-wood  tree. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE  167 

Gashed  and  wounded,  and  stiff  and  sore, 
He  laid  him  down  on  the  sandy  shore; 
He  blessed  the  force  of  the  charmed  line, 

And  he  banned  the  water-goblin's  spite,  210 

For  he  saw  around  in  the  sweet  moonshine 
Their  little  wee  faces  above  the  brine, 

Giggling  and  laughing  with  all  their  might 
At  the  piteous  hap  of  the  Fairy  wight. 

Soon  he  gathered  the  balsam  dew  215 

From  the  sorrel-leaf  and  the  henbane  bud; 

Over  each  wound  the  balm  he  drew, 

And  with  cobweb  lint  he  stanched  the  blood. 

The  mild  west  wind  was  soft  and  low; 

It  cooled  the  heat  of  his  burning  brow,  220 

And  he  felt  new  life  in  his  sinews  shoot 

As  he  drank  the  juice  of  the  calamus  root. 

And  now  he  treads  the  fatal  shore 

As  fresh  and  vigorous  as  before. 

Wrapped  in  musing  stands  the  sprite:  225 

T  is  the  middle  wane  of  night; 

His  task  is  hard,  his  way  is  far, 
But  he  must  do  his  errand  right 

Ere  dawning  mounts  her  beamy  car, 

And  rolls  her  chariot  wheels  of  light;  230 

And  vain  are  the  spells  of  fairy-land, 
He  must  work  with  a  human  hand. 

He  cast  a  saddened  look  around; 

But  he  felt  new  joy  his  bosom  swell, 
When  glittering  on  the  shadowed  ground  23 « 

He  saw  a  purple  mussel-shell: 
Thither  he  ran,  and  he  bent  him  low, 
He  heaved  at  the  stern  and  he  heaved  at  the  bow, 
And  he  pushed  her  over  the  yielding  sand 
Till  he  came  to  the  verge  of  the  haunted  land.  240 

She  was  as  lovely  a  pleasure-boat 

As  ever  fairy  had  paddled  in, 
For  she  glowed  with  purple  paint  without, 

And  shone  with  silvery  pearl  within: 


i68  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  sculler's  notch  in  the  stern  he  made,  245 

An  oar  he  shaped  of  the  bootle- blade; 

Then  sprung  to  his  seat  with  a  lightsome  leap, 

And  launched  afar  on  the  calm,  blue  deep. 

The  imps  of  the  river  yell  and  rave: 

They  had  no  power  above  the  wave,  250 

But  they  heaved  the  billow  before  the  prow, 

And  they  dashed  the  surge  against  her  side, 
And  they  struck  her  keel  with  jerk  and  blow, 

Till  the  gunwale  bent  to  the  rocking  tide. 
She  wimpled  about  to  the  pale  moonbeam,  255 

Like  a  feather  that  floats  on  a  wind-tossed  stream; 
And  momently  athwart  her  track 
The  quarl  upreared  his  island  back, 
And  the  fluttering  scallop  behind  would  float, 
And  patter  the  water  about  the  boat;  260 

But  he  bailed  her  out  with  his  colen-bell, 

And  he  kept  her  trimmed  with  a  wary  tread, 
While  on  every  side  like  lightning  fell 

The  heavy  strokes  of  his  bootle-blade. 

Onward  still  he  held  his  way,  265 

Till  he  came  where  the  column  of  moonshine  lay, 

And  saw  beneath  the  surface  dim 

The  brown-backed  sturgeon  slowly  swim. 

Around  him  were  the  goblin  train; 

But  he  sculled  with  all  his  might  and  main,  270 

And  followed  wherever  the  sturgeon  led, 

Till  he  saw  him  upward  point  his  head; 

Then  he  dropped  his  paddle-blade, 

And  held  his  colen-goblet  up 

To  catch  the  drop  in  its  crimson  cup.  275 

With  sweeping  tail  and  quivering  fin 

Through  the  wave  the  sturgeon  flew, 
And  like  the  heaven-shot  javelin 

He  sprung  above  the  waters  blue: 
Instant  as  the  star-fall  light,  280 

He  plunged  him  in  the  deep  again, 
But  left  an  arch  of  silver  bright, 

The  rainbow  of  the  moony  main. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE  169 

It  was  a  strange  and  lovely  sight 

To  see  the  puny  goblin  there:  285 

He  seemed  an  angel  form  of  light, 

With  azure  wing  and  sunny  hair, 

Throned  on  a  cloud  of  purple  fair, 
Circled  with  blue  and  edged  with  white, 
And  sitting  at  the  fall  of  even  290 

Beneath  the  bow  of  summer  heaven. 

A  moment,  and  its  lustre  fell; 

But  ere  it  met  the  billow  blue 
He  caught  within  his  crimson  bell 

A  droplet  of  its  sparkling  dew.  295 

Joy  to  thee,  Fay!  thy  task  is  done; 
Thy  wings  are  pure,  for  the  gem  is  won. 
Cheerly  ply  thy  dripping  oar, 
And  haste  away  to  the  elfin  shore  1 

He  turns,  and  lo  on  either  side  300 

The  ripples  on  his  path  divide; 

And  the  track  o'er  which  his  boat  must  pass 

Is  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  polished  glass. 

Around,  their  limbs  the  sea-nymphs  lave, 

With  snowy  arms  half  swelling  out,  305 

While  on  the  glossed  and  gleamy  wave 

Their  sea-green  ringlets  loosely  float: 
They  swim  around  with  smile  and  song; 

They  press  the  bark  with  pearly  hand, 
And  gently  urge  her  course  along,  310 

Toward  the  beach  of  speckled  sand; 

And  as  he  lightly  leaped  to  land 
They  bade  adieu  with  nod  and  bow, 

Then  gaily  kissed  each  little  hand, 
And  dropped  in  the  crystal  deep  below.  315 

A  moment  stayed  the  fairy  there: 

He  kissed  the  beach  and  breathed  a  prayer; 

Then  spread  his  wings  of  gilded  blue, 

And  on  to  the  elfin  court  he  flew. 

As  ever  ye  saw  a  bubble  rise,  320 

And  shine  with  a  thousand  changing  dyes, 

Till,  lessening  far,  through  ether  driven, 


I  yo  AMERICAN  POEMS 

It  mingles  with  the  hues  of  heaven; 
As,  at  the  glimpse  of  morning  pale, 

The  lance-fly  spreads  his  silken  sail  325 

And  gleams  with  blendings  soft  and  bright 
Till  lost  in  the  shades  of  fading  night; 
So  rose  from  earth  the  lovely  Fay, 
So  vanished  far  in  heaven  away  I 
1819.  1835. 


HENRY  C.  KNIGHT 

A  SUMMER'S  DAY 

MORNING 

The  shrill  cock's  clarion  the  blue  welkin  fills, 

The  top-boughs  carol  with  the  songster's  prayer; 
The  jovial  Sun  winds  up  the  Eastern  hills, 

Waving  sweet  odours  from  his  yellow  hair. 
Soft  murmur  pebbly  rills  at  stilly  dawn; 

The  nestling  breezes  plume  their  dew-bent  wings; 
Loudly  the  watch-dog  wakes  the  peopled  lawn, 

While  stroke  on  stroke  the  woodman's  echo  rings. 
Gray  mists  now  drizzle  from  the  smoky  rocks; 

The  humming  bees  swarm  out  in  busy  mood; 
The  herdsman  drives  a-field  his  kine  and  flocks, 

And  matron  hens  cluck  out  their  callow  brood. 
Nature  in  youthful  dishabille  appears, 
And  the  returning  smile  dispels  her  nightly  tears. 

NOON 
The  sweltering  farmer  spreads  the  new-mown  grass 

That  mid-day  suns  may  nurture  it  to  hay; 
And  roguish  Roger,  pledging  to  his  lass, 

To  tilt  the  tankard  slyly  slinks  away. 
The  cloudless,  sultry  noon  oft  drives  the  swain 

To  court  light  slumbers  in  some  cool  retreat; 
But  if  dark  rising  rack  threats  speedy  rain, 

The  hay-cocks  heap'd  are  hous'd  with  hurrying  feet. 
Fowls  droop  the  wing;  the  herd,  their  feed  forgot, 

Restless  for  flies  beneath  the  willows  stand; 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK  171 


Broad  sheets  of  cloth  are  bleaching  by  the  cot; 

The  pool  with  geese,  a  fancied  fleet,  is  mann'd. 
Nature  in  all  her  glowing  beauty  beams, 
And  as  a  panting  bride  in  nuptial  glory  seems. 

EVENING 
The  sun,  his  day-toil  clos'd,  to  rest  retires; 

The  watchful  moon  suspends  her  lamp  of  eve; 
The  cheery  stars  light  up  their  twinkling  fires, 
And  sombre  mellow'd  tints  the  eye  relieve. 
Tottering  on  tripods,  milkmaids  soothe  the  kine,  5 

While  rains  a  white  shower  in  the  foaming  pail. 
The  clown,  new-trimm'd,  sneaks  out  his  lass  to  join, 

And  con  in  stolen  glance  an  amorous  tale. 
Mourning  the  sun,  blue-bells  have  shut  their  cup; 

The  bat  wheels  round  and  round  on  leathern  wing;  10 

Reynard  creeps  out,  on  pilfer'd  eggs  to  sup; 

And  chiming  frogs  their  shrilly  concert  sing. 
Nature,  a  pensive  matron,  smiles  serene, 
Her  morning  charms  enveil'd,  not  anxious  to  be  seen. 

1821. 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK 

MARCO  BOZZARIS 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power; 

In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court  he  bore  5 

The  trophies  of  a  conqueror; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring; 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king: 
As  wild  his  thoughts  and  gay  of  wing  10 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand.  15 


I72  AMERICAN  POEMS 

There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Plataea's  day; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there,  20 

With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek,  25 

"To  arms!  they  come!  the  Greek!  the  Greek!" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout  and  groan  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  failing  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud;  30 

And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band: 
"Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires  1 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires! 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires,  35 

God,  and  your  native  land!"- 

They  fought  like  brave  men,  long  and  well; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein:  40 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose,  45 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death! 

Come  to  the  mother's  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals  50 

That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm; 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK  173 

Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm  55 

With  banquet-song  and  dance  and  wine; 

And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 

The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 

And  all  we  know  or  dream  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine.  60 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word, 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be.  65 

Come  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought, 
Come  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought, 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour,  and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight  70 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men; 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh  75 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm 
And  orange-groves  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris,  with  the  storied  brave  80 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume,  85 

Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb. 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 

Long  loved  and  for  a  season  gone:  90 

For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells; 


174  AMERICAN  POEMS 


For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said  95 

At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed; 

Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 

Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow; 

His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 

For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years,  100 

Thinks  of  thy  fate  and  checks  her  tears; 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys,  105 

And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh, 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now  and  Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names,  no 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 

1825. 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

A  HEALTH 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon; 

To  whom  the  better  elements  and  kindly  stars  have  given 

A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air,  't  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own,  like  those  of  morning  birds,  5 

And  something  more  than  melody  dwells  ever  in  her  words: 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they,  and  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burthened  bee  forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her,  the  measures  of  her  hours; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy,  the  freshness,  of  young  flowers;    10 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft,  so  fill  her  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  the  idol  of  past  years! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace  a  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts  a  sound  must  long  remain; 
But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her  so  very  much  endears,  15 

When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh  will  not  be  life's  but  hers. 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS  175 

I  filled  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex,  the  seeming  paragon. 

Her  health!  and  would  on  earth  there  stood,  some  more  of 

such  a  frame, 

That  life  might  be  all  poetry,  and  weariness  a  name.  20 

1825. 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS 

ROARING  BROOK 

It  was  a  mountain  stream  that  with  the  leap 

Of  its  impatient  waters  had  worn  out 

A  channel  in  the  rock,  and  wash'd  away 

The  earth  that  had  upheld  the  tall  old  trees 

Till  it  was  darken'd  with  the  shadowy  arch  5 

Of  the  o'er-leaning  branches.     Here  and  there 

It  loiterM  in  a  broad  and  limpid  pool 

That  circled  round  demurely;  and  anon 

Sprung  violently  over  where  the  rock 

Fell  suddenly,  and  bore  its  bubbles  on  10 

Till  they  were  broken  by  the  hanging  moss, 

As  anger  with  a  gentle  word  grows  calm. 

In  spring-time,  when  the  snows  were  coming  down, 

And  in  the  flooding  of  the  Autumn  rains, 

No  foot  might  enter  there;  but  in  the  hot  15 

And  thirsty  summer,  when  the  fountains  slept, 

You  could  go  up  its  channel  in  the  shade 

To  the  far  sources,  with  a  brow  as  cool 

As  in  the  grotto  of  the  anchorite. 

Here  when  an  idle  student  have  I  come,  20 

And  in  a  hollow  of  the  rock  lain  down 

And  mus'd  until  the  eventide,  or  read 

Some  fine  old  poet  till  my  nook  became 

A  haunt  of  faery,  or  the  busy  flow 

Of  water  to  my  spell-bewilder'd  ear  25 

Seem'd  like  the  din  of  some  gay  tournament. 

Pleasant  have  been  such  hours;  and  tho'  the  wise 

Have  said  that  I  was  indolent,  and  they 

Who  taught  me  have  reprov'd  me  that  I  play'd 


I76  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  truant  in  the  leafy  month  of  June,  30 

I  deem  it  true  philosophy  in  him 

Whose  path  is  in  the  rude  and  busy  world 

To  loiter  with  these  wayside  comforters. 


UNSEEN  SPIRITS 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway 

T  was  near  the  twilight-tide, 
And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride; 
Alone  walk'd  she,  but  viewlessly  5 

Walk'd  spirits  at  her  side: 

Peace  charm'd  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charm'd  the  air; 
And  all  astir  look'd  kind  on  her, 

And  call'd  her  good  as  fair  —  10 

For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true, 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold,  15 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo  — 
But  honor'd  well  are  charms  to  sell 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale;  20 

And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail: 
'T  wixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walk'd  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow  25 

For  this  world's  peace  to  pray; 
For  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 

Her  woman's  heart  gave  way!  — 
But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 

By  man  is  cursed  alway!  30 

1843- 


PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE  177 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE 

FLORENCE  VANE 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane; 
My  life's  bright  dream,  and  early, 

Hath  come  again; 
I  renew,  in  my  fond  vision,  5 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  ruin  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old,  10 

Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told, 
That  spot — the  hues  Elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain— 
I  treasure  in  my  vision,  15 

Florence  Vane. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme;  20 

Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane. 

But,  fairest,  coldest  wonder,  25 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under — 

Alas  the  day! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain,  30 

To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep. 


178  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  pansies  love  to  dally  35 

Where  maidens  sleep; 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane.  40 

1847. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

(The  selections  from  Bryant,  except  the  first,  are  reprinted  from  the  copyrighted  1876 
edition  of  his  poems,  with  the  permission  of  D.  Appleton  &  Co.] 

FROM 

THE  EMBARGO 

Look  where  we  will,  and  in  whatever  land, 

Europe's  rich  soil  or  Afric's  barren  sand, 

Where  the  wild  savage  hunts  his  wilder  prey, 

Or  art  and  science  pour  their  brightest  day, 

The  monster  Vice  appears  before  our  eyes  5 

In  naked  impudence  or  gay  disguise. 

But  quit  the  meaner  game,  indignant  muse, 
And  to  thy  country  turn  thy  nobler  views. 
Ill-fated  clime!  condemn'd  to  feel  th'  extremes 
Of  a  weak  ruler's  philosophic  dreams;  10 

Driven  headlong  on  to  ruin's  fateful  brink, 
When  will  thy  country  feel,  when  will  she  think  I 

Satiric  muse,  shall  injured  Commerce  weep 
Her  ravish 'd  rights,  and  will  thy  thunders  sleep  ? 
Dart  thy  keen  glances,  knit  thy  threat'ning  brows,  15 

Call  fire  from  heaven  to  blast  thy  country's  foes. 
Oh  let  a  youth  thine  inspiration  learn — 
Oh  give  him  "words  that  breathe  and  thoughts  that  burn"! 

Curse  of  our  nation,  source  of  countless  woes, 
From  whose  dark  womb  unreckon'd  misery  flows,  20 

Th'  Embargo  rages  like  a  sweeping  wind; 
Fear  lowers  before  and  famine  stalks  behind. 
What  words,  oh  Muse,  can  paint  the  mournful  scene — 
The  saddening  street,  the  desolated  green, 
How  hungry  labourers  leave  their  toil  and  sigh,  25 

And  sorrow  droops  in  each  desponding  eye  ? 
1808. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


179 


THANATOPSIS 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language:  for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty;  and  she  glides  5 

Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 

And  healing  sympathy  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images  10 

Of  the  stern  agony  and  shroud  and  pall 

And  breathless  darkness  and  the  narrow  house 

Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart, 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around —  15 

Earth  and  her  waters  and  the  depths  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice: 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground,  20 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up  25 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share  and  treads  upon;  the  oak  30 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  with  kings,  35 

The  powerful  of  the  earth,  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.    The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun;  the  vales 


l8o  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between;  40 

The  venerable  woods,  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round  all, 

Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all  45 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.    The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven,     • 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes  50 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom.    Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 

Save  his  own  dashings;  yet  the  dead  are  there,  55 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep:  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend         ,  60 

Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 

Will  share  thy  destiny.    The  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 

His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  leave  65 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men — 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid,  70 

The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side 

By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  which  moves  75 

To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 181 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave  80 

Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

1817. 

THE  YELLOW  VIOLET 

When  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell, 

And  woods  the  blue-bird's  warble  know, 

The  yellow  violet's  modest  bell 

Peeps  from  the  last  year's  leaves  below. 

Ere  russet  fields  their  green  resume,  5 

Sweet  flower,  I  love,  in  forest  bare, 
To  meet  thee  when  thy  faint  perfume 

Alone  is  in  the  virgin  air. 

Of  all  her  train,  the  hands  of  Spring 

First  plant  thee  in  the  watery  mould,  10 

And  I  have  seen  thee  blossoming 

Beside  the  snow-bank's  edges  cold. 

Thy  parent  sun,  who  bade  thee  view 

Pale  skies,  and  chilling  moisture  sip, 
Has  bathed  thee  in  his  own  bright  hue,  15 

And  streaked  with  jet  thy  glowing  lip. 

Yet  slight  thy  form,  and  low  thy  seat, 

And  earthward  bent  thy  gentle  eye, 
Unapt  the  passing  view  to  meet, 

When  loftier  flowers  are  flaunting  nigh.  20 

Oft,  in  the  sunless  April  day, 

Thy  early  smile  has  stayed  my  walk; 
But  midst  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  May, 

I  passed  thee  on  thy  humble  stalk. 

So  they  who  climb  to  wealth  forget  25 

The  friends  in  darker  fortunes  tried. 
I  copied  them — but  I  regret 

That  I  should  ape  the  ways  of  pride. 


182  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  when  again  the  genial  hour 

Awakes  the  painted  tribes  of  light,  3° 

I  '11  not  o'erlook  the  modest  flower 

That  made  the  woods  of  April  bright. 
1814.  1821. 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A  WOOD 

Stranger,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs 

No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 

Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 

Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares 

To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood  5 

And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.    The  calm  shade 

Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm;  and  the  sweet  breeze, 

That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm 

To  thy  sick  heart.    Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 

Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men  10 

And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.    The  primal  curse 

Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 

But  not  in  vengeance.     God  hath  yoked  to  guilt 

Her  pale  tormentor,  misery.     Hence  these  shades 

Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness:  the  thick  roof  15 

Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 

And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 

In  wantonness  of  spirit;  while,  below, 

The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 

Chirps  merrily.    Throngs  of  insects  in  the  shade  20 

Try  their  thin  wings  and  dance  in  the  warm  beam 

That  waked  them  into  life.     Even  the  green  trees 

Partake  the  deep  contentment;  as  they  bend 

To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky 

Looks  in  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene.  25 

Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems  to  enjoy 

Existence  than  the  winged  plunderer 

That  sucks  its  sweets.    The  mossy  rocks  themselves, 

And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate  trees 

That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causey  rude  3° 

Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots, 

With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 

Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.    The  rivulet 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  183 

Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and,  tripping  o'er  its  bed 
Of  pebbly  sands  or  leaping  down  the  rocks,  35 

Seems  with  continuous  laughter  to  rejoice 
In  its  own  being.     Softly  tread  the  marge, 
Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the  wren 
That  dips  her  bill  in  water.     The  cool  wind, 
That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to  thee,  40 

Like  one  that  loves  thee  nor  will  let  thee  pass 
Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 
1815.  1817. 

TO  A  WATERFOWL 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far  through  their  rosy  depths  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye  5 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake  or  marge  of  river  wide,  10 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, —  15 

Lone  wandering  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near.  20 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end: 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 


184  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Thou  'rt  gone;  the  abyss  of  heaven  25 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form:  yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who  from  zone  to  zone 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight,  30 

In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 
1815.  1818. 

A  WINTER  PIECE 

The  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 

Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 

Oftener  than  now;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 

Had  chafed  my  spirit,  when  the  unsteady  pulse 

Beat  with  strange  flutterings,  I  would  wander  forth  5 

And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my  path 

Was  to  me  as  a  friend.     The  swelling  hills, 

The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between 

With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 

Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society  .  10 

That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.     Then  the  chant 

Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 

Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 

The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace;  and  I  began 

To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink,  15 

And  lose  myself  in  day-dreams.     While  I  stood 

In  Nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 

With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 

Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 

Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole  20 

From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 

Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.     When  shrieked 

The  bleak  November  winds  and  smote  the  woods, 

And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the  shades 

That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet  25 

Where  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still;   they  seemed 

Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 

Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks:  the  brook, 

Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  185 

As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers;  afar,  30 

The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams, 

And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 

By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 

Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 

Seemed  new  to  me.     Nor  was  I  slow  to  come  35 

Among  them  when  the  clouds  from  their  still  skirts 

Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 

And  all  was  white.    The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 

Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 

Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee,  40 

Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 

Over  the  spotted  trunks;  and  the  close  buds 

That  lay  along  the  boughs,  instinct  with  life, 

Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 

Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North.  45 

The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough; 

And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches  bent 
Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 

A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 

The  partridge  found  a  shelter.     Through  the  snow  50 

The  rabbit  sprang  away.    The  lighter  track 

Of  fox  and  the  racoon's  broad  path  were  there, 

Crossing  each  other.     From  his  hollow  tree, 

The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 

Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway  55 

Of  winter  blast  to  shake  them  from  their  hold. 
But  Winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes;  he  boasts 

Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows, 

Or  Autumn,  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 

All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come  when  the  rains  60 

Have  glazed  the  snow  and  clothed  the  trees  with  ice, 

While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 

Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.     Approach! 

The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 

And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove  65 

Welcome  thy  entering.     Look!  the  massy  trunks 

Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal;  each  light  spray, 

Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 

Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 

That  glimmer  with  an  amethystine  light.  70 


<86  AMERICAN  POEMS 


But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long  low  boughs 

Bend  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 

The  glassy  floor.     Oh,  you  might  deem  the  spot 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 

Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth — where  the  gems  grow,  75 

And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 

With  amethyst  and  topaz — and  the  place 

Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 

That  dwells  in  them;  or  haply  the  vast  hall 

Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night  80 

And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun, 

Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 

And  crossing  arches,  and  fantastic  aisles 

Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness  and  are  lost 

Among  the  crowded  pillars.     Raise  thine  eye:  85 

Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault; 

There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 

Look  in.     Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 

Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 

And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air,  90 

And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light; 

Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 

With  the  next  sun:  from  numberless  vast  trunks 

Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 

Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve  95 

Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 

And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  no'sy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 
The  plashy  snow  save  only  the  firm  drift 
In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines,  100 

'T  is  pleasant  to  behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 
Roll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  shrill  sound  of  youthful  voices  wakes 
The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 
That  from  the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling  drops,  105 

Falls,  mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 
Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft, 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  axe 
Makes  the  woods  ring.    Along  the  quiet  air 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds,  1 1  o 

Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  187 

Scarce  stir  the  branches.     Lodged  in  sunny  cleft, 
Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at —  115 

Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall  oft 
Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds  120 

Shade  heaven,  and,  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth, 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like  hail 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forest  in  his  rage. 
1820.  1821. 

OH  FAIREST  OF  THE  RURAL  MAIDS 

Oh  fairest  of  the  rural  maids, 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades; 
Green  boughs  and  glimpses  of  the  sky 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child,  5 

Were  evei  in  the  sylvan  wild; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 

Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks;  10 

Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 

Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 

And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen; 

Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look  15 

On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast; 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 

Of  those  calm  solitudes  is  there.  20 

1820.  1832. 


1 88  AMERICAN  POEMS 


SUMMER  WIND 

It  is  a  sultry  day:  the  sun  has  drunk 

The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass; 

There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 

That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 

Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent,  save  the  faint  5 

And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 

Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 

Instantly  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 

Feel  the  too  potent  fervors:  the  tall  maize 

Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves;  the  clover  droops  10 

Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 

But  far  in  the  fierce  sunshine  tower  the  hills, 

With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern, 

As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 

Were  but  an  element  they  loved.     Bright  clouds,  15 

Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven — 

Their  bases  on  the  mountains,  their  white  tops 

Shining  in  the  far  ether — fire  the  air 

With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 

The  gazer's  eye  away.     For  me,  I  lie  20 

Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 

Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 

Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 

That  still  delays  his  coming.     Why  so  slow, 

Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ?  25 

Oh,  come  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 

Coolness  and  life!     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 

He  hears  me  ?     See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge 

The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top;  and  now, 

Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak  30 

Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.     He  comes! 

Lo,  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves! 

The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 

Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 

And  universal  motion.     He  is  come,  35 

Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs, 

And  bearing  on  their  fragrance;  and  he  brings 

Music  of  birds,  and  rustling  of  young  boughs, 

And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  189 

Of  distant  waterfalls.     All  the  green  herbs  40 

Are  stirring  in  his  breath;  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
Nod  gayly  to  each  other;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet;  and  silver  waters  break  45 

Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 
1824. 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN 

Thou  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 

Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 

Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.    Let  thy  foot 

Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 

The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth,  5 

Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 

The  steep  and  toilsome  way.    There,  as  thou  stand'st, 

The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and,  around, 

The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 

Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world  10 

To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 

The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.    Thou  shalt  look 

Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 

And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 

And  streams  that  with  their  bordering  thickets  strive  15 

To  hide  their  windings.    Thou  shalt  gaze,  at  once, 

Here  on  white  villages  and  tilth  and  herds 

And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 

That  only  hear  the  torrent  and  the  wind 

And  eagle's  shriek.    There  is  a  precipice  20 

That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall 

Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 

To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 

When  the  flood  drowned  them.    To  the  north,  a  path 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement.  25 

Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 

With  mossy  trees  and  pinnacles  of  flint 

And  many  a  hanging  crag.     But,  to  the  east, 

Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, 

Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear  30 


IQ°  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 

With  moss,  the  growth  of  centuries,  and  there 

Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 

Has  splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge  and  see  35 

Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge  gray  wall, 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks  and  at  the  base 

Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 

Over  the  dizzy  depth  and  hear  the  sound 

Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below,  40 

Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 

Is  lovely  round;  a  beautiful  river  there 

Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 

The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 

Mining  the  soil  for  ages.    On  each  side  45 

The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills;  beyond, 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 

The  mountain  columns  with  which  earth  props  heaven. 

There  is  a  tale  about  these  reverend  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love,  50 

And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 
When  over  these  fair  vales  the  savage  sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.    There  was  a  maid, 
The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 
With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form,  55 

And  a  gay  heart.    About  her  cabin  door 
The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 
And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  loved  her  cousin;  such  a  love  was  deemed, 
By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes,  6c 

Incestuous,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart, 
As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.     In  vain. 
Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 
Its  lightness,  and  the  gray-haired  men  that  passed  65 

Her  dwelling  wondered  that  they  heard  no  more 
The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her  whose  looks 
Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they  said, 
Upon  the  Winter  of  their  age.     She  went 
To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found  70 

When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  191 

And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out; 

Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling  husk 

The  shining  ear;  nor  when,  by  the  river's  side, 

They  pulled  the  grape  and  startled  the  wild  shades  75 

With  sounds  of  mirth.     The  keen-eyed  Indian  dames 

Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 

Her  wasting  form,  and  say,  The  girl  will  die. 
One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 

A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years,  80 

She  poured  her  griefs.     "Thou  know'st,  and  thou  alone," 

She  said,  "for  I  have  told  thee,  all  my  love 

And  guilt  and  sorrow.     I  am  sick  of  life. 

All  night  I  weep  in  darkness;  and  the  morn 

Glares  on  me  as  upon  a  thing  accursed,  85 

That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.     I  hate 

The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that  once 

I  loved;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 

Sound  in  my  ear  like  mockings,  and  at  night 

In  dreams,  my  mother,  from  the  land  of  souls,  go 

Calls  me  and  chides  me.     All  that  look  on  me 

Do  seem  to  know  my  shame:  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die." 

It  was  a  summer  morning,  and  they  went  95 

To  this  old  precipice.    About  the  cliffs 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  shaggy  skins 
Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they  deemed, 
Like  worshippers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God  TOO 

Doth  walk  on  the  high  places  and  affect 
The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.     She  had  on 
The  ornaments  with  which  her  father  loved 
To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 
And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors  came  105 

To  be  his  guests.     Here  the  friends  sat  them  down. 
And  sang,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 
And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with  flowers, 
And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her  way 
To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief  no 

Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red 
Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 


192  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Below  her — waters  resting  in  the  embrace 
Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades 
Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness  115 

She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 
Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the  trees, 
And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 
Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love 
And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears  120 

Ran  from  her  eyes.     But  when  the  sun  grew  low 
And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 
From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.    There  was  scooped, 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave; 
And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb  125 

With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death, 
With  the  same  withering  wild  flowers  in  her  hair. 
And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her  the  tribe 
Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 

Of  small  loose  stones.    Thenceforward,  all  who  passed,      130 
Hunter  and  dame  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 
In  silence  on  the  pile.     It  stands  there  yet. 
And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who  come 
To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 
Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale;  and  to  this  day  135 

The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden  died 
Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 
1824.  1824. 

A  FOREST  HYMN 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 

To  hew  the  shaft  and  lay  the  architrave 

And  spread  the  roof  above  them,  ere  he  framed 

The  lofty  vault  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems,  in  the  darkling  wood,  5 

Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 

And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication;  for  his  simple  heart 

Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 

Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place,  10 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  193 

Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him  and  bowed 

His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power  15 

And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?    Let  me,  at  least,          20 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns;  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof:  thou  didst  look  down         25 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and  forthwith  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees;  they  in  thy  sun 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  toward  heaven;  the  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died  30 

Among  their  branches,  till  at  last  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy  and  tall  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  isles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride  35 

Report  not;  no  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here — thou  fill'st 
The  solitude.    Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds, 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees  40 

In  music;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 
Comes,  scarcely  felt;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 
The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 
Here  is  continual  worship:  Nature,  here,  45 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that  midst  its  herbs 
Wells  softly  forth  and,  wandering,  steeps  the  roots  50 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 


194  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections:  grandeur,  strength,  and  grace 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak,  55 

By  whose  inmovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which  60 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun:  that  delicate  forest  flower, 

With  scented  breath  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould,  65 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  great  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on,  70 

In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity: 

Lo,  all  grow  old  and  die;  but  see,  again,  75 

How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses,  ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not  lost  80 

One  of  earth's  charms:  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch-enemy,  Death;  yea,  seats  himself  85 

Upon  the  tyrant's  throne,  the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment;  for  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves  90 

Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  195 

Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them;  and  there  have  been  holy  men  95 

Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 

The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink  100 

And  tremble  and  are  still.     O  God!  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament 

The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods  105 

And  drowns  the  villages;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities;  who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power,  no 

His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate  115 

In  these  calm  shades  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 
1825.  1825. 

JUNE 
I  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round, 
And  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

At  rest  within  the  ground, 

'T  were  pleasant  that  in  flowery  June,  5 

When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould,  10 

A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 
And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat — 


196  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Away!     I  will  not  think  of  these  1 

Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze,  15 

Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 
And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 
Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 

There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours 

The  golden  light  should  lie,  20 

And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 
Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 

The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 

His  love-tale,  close  beside  my  cell; 

The  idle  butterfly  25 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 

The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts,  at  noon, 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  song  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon,  30 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 

I  would  the  lovely  scene  around  35 

Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know  that  I  no  more  should  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow;  40 

But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go: 
Soft  airs  and  song  and  light  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb.  45 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been, 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene; 
Whose  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills  50 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  197 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills 

Is  that  his  grave  is  green; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 
1825.  1826. 

A  SUMMER  RAMBLE 

The  quiet  August  noon  has  come: 

A  slumberous  silence  fills  the  sky; 
The  fields  are  still,  the  woods  are  dumb; 

In  glassy  sleep  the  waters  lie. 

And  mark  yon  soft  white  clouds  that  rest  5 

Above  our  vale,  a  moveless  throng; 
The  cattle  on  the  mountain's  breast 

Enjoy  the  grateful  shadow  long. 

Oh  how  unlike  those  merry  hours 

In  early  June,  when  Earth  laughs  out,  10 

When  the  fresh  winds  make  love  to  flowers, 

And  woodlands  sing  and  waters  shout; 

When  in  the  grass  sweet  voices  talk, 

And  strains  of  tiny  music  swell 
From  every  moss-cup  of  the  rock,  15 

From  every  nameless  blossom's  bell. 

But  now  a  joy  too  deep  for  sound, 

A  peace  no  other  season  knows, 
Hushes  the  heavens  and  wraps  the  ground, 

The  blessing  of  supreme  repose.  ao 

Awayl    I  will  not  be,  to-day, 

The  only  slave  of  toil  and  care: 
Away  from  desk  and  dust,  awayl 

I  '11  be  as  idle  as  the  air. 

Beneath  the  open  sky  abroad,  25 

Among  the  plants  and  breathing  things, 

The  sinless,  peaceful  works  of  God, 

I  '11  share  the  calm  the  season  bring*. 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Come  thou,  in  whose  soft  eyes  I  see 

The  gentle  meanings  of  thy  heart:  30 

One  day  amid  the  woods  with  me, 

From  men  and  all  their  cares  apart! 

And  where,  upon  the  meadow's  breast, 

The  shadow  of  the  thicket  lies, 
The  blue  wild-flowers  thou  gatherest  35 

Shall  glow  yet  deeper  near  thine  eyes. 

Come;  and  when  mid  the  calm  profound 

I  turn  those  gentle  eyes  to  seek, 
They,  like  the  lovely  landscape  round, 

Of  innocence  and  peace  shall  speak.  40 

Rest  here,  beneath  the  unmoving  shade, 

And  on  the  silent  valleys  gaze, 
Winding  and  widening  till  they  fade 

In  yon  soft  ring  of  summer  haze. 

The  village  trees  their  summits  rear  45 

Still  as  its  spire;  and  yonder  flock, 
At  rest  in  those  calm  fields,  appear 

As  chiselled  from  the  lifeless  rock. 

One  tranquil  mount  the  scene  o'erlooks: 

There  the  hushed  winds  their  sabbath  keep,  50 

While  a  near  hum  from  bees  and  brooks 

Comes  faintly,  like  the  breath  of  sleep. 

Well  may  the  gazer  deem  that  when, 
Worn  with  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 

And  heart-sick  at  the  wrongs  of  men,  5^ 

The  good  forsakes  the  scene  of  life, 

Like  this  deep  quiet  that,  awhile, 

Lingers  the  lovely  landscape  o'er, 
Shall  be  the  peace  whose  holy  smile 

Welcomes  him  to  a  happier  shore.  60 

1826.  1826. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


199 


THE  EVENING  WIND 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  them 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow. 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now,  5 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail:  I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  seal 

Nor  I  alone:  a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight;  10 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade;  go  forth,  15 

God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 

Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs  20 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast. 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head  25 

To  feel  thee;   thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed 

Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep,  30 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go:  but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

Which  is  the  life  of  Nature,  shall  restore, 
With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range,  35 

Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  more; 


200  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 

Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore, 
And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream.  40 

1830. 

TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean  5 

O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest, 

Thou  waitest  larte,  and  com'st  alone, 

When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown,  10 

And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 

The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 

Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 

Blue— blue— as  if  that  sky  let  fall  15 

A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 

May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart.  10 

1829.  1832. 

SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN 

Our  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold: 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood,  5 

Our  tent  the  cypress- tree; 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  2OT 

We  know  the  forest  round  us 

As  seamen  know  the  sea: 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass,  10 

Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight  15 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again;  20 

And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release  25 

From  danger  and  from  toil: 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil; 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up,  30 

And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup; 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly  35 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds.  40 

T  is  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlit  plain; 
T  is  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 


202  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  moment  in  the  British  camp —  45 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day! 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs;  50 

Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band, 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer,  55 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

Forever  from  our  shore.  60 

1831.  1831. 


THE  PRAIRIES 

These  are  the  gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 

The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 

For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  710  name — 

The  Prairies.    I  behold  them  for  the  first, 

And  my  heart  swells  while  the  dilated  sight  5 

Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.    Lo,  they  stretch 

In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 

As  if  the  Ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 

Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed 

And  motionless  forever.     Motionless?  10 

No,  they  are  all  unchained  again:  the  clouds 

Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 

The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye; 

Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 

The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South,  15 

Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 

And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 

Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not,  ye  have  played 

Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 

Of  Texas,  and  have  crisped  the  limpid  brooks  20 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  203 

That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific:  have  ye  fanned 
A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  ? 
Man  hath  no  part  in  all  this  glorious  work: 

The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved  25 

And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown  their  slopes 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 

And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.     Fitting  floor 

For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky, 

With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude  30 

Rival  the  constellations!    The  great  heavens 

Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love — 

A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 

Than  that  which  bends  above  our  Eastern  hills. 

As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed,  35 

Among  the  high  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his  sides, 

The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 

A  sacrilegious  sound.     I  think  of  those* 

Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples:  are  they  here, 

The  dead  of  other  days  ?  and  did  the  dust  40 

Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 

And  burn  with  passion  ?    Let  the  mighty  mounds 

That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 

In  the  dim  forest  crowded  with  old  oaks, 

Answer.     A  race  that  long  has  passed  away  45 

Built  them;  a  disciplined  and  populous  race 

Heaped  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet  the  Greek 

Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 

Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 

The  glittering  Parthenon.    These  ample  fields  50 

Nourished  their  harvests;  here  their  herds  were  fed, 

When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  lowed, 

And  bowed  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 

All  day  this  desert  murmured  with  their  toils, 

Till  twilight  blushed,  and  lovers  walked,  and  wooed  55 

In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 

From  instruments  of  unremembered  form, 

Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.    The  red  man  came, 

The  roaming  hunter  tribes,  warlike  and  fierce, 

And  the  mound-builders  vanished  from  the  earth.  60 

The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 


204  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Has  settled  where  they  dwelt.    The  prairie-wolf         . 

Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug  den 

Yawns  by  my  path.    The  gopher  mines  the  ground 

Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.    All  is  gone:  65 

All  save  the  piles  of  earth  that  hold  their  bones; 

The  platforms  where  they,  worshipped  unknown  gods; 

The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 

To  keep  the  foe  at  bay,  till  o'er  the  walls 

The  wild  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by  one,  70 

The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced  and  heaped 

With  corpses.    The  brown  vultures  of  the  wood 

Flocked  to  those  vast  uncovered  sepulchres, 

And  sat,  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 

Haply  some  solitary  fugitive,  75 

Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 

Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 

Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 

Man's  better  nature  triumphed  then:  kind  words 

Welcomed  and  soothed  him;  the  rude  conquerors  80 

Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs;  he  chose 

A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 

Seemed  to  forget — yet  ne'er  forgot — the  wife 

Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones 

Butchered  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his  race.  85 

Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.    Thus  arise 
Races  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  God 
Fills  them  or  is  withdrawn.    The  red  man,  too, 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so  long,  90 

And,  nearer  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wilder  hunting-ground.     The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The  white  man's  face,  among  Missouri's  springs,  95 

And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregon, 
He  rears  his  little  Venice.    In  these  plains 
The  bison  feeds  no  more:  twice  twenty  leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp, 
Roams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake  100 

The  earth  with  thundering  steps — yet  here  I  meet 
His  ancient  footprints  stamped  beside  the  pool. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  205 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds,  105 

And  birds  that  scarce  have  learned  the  fear  of  man, 
Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.    The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.    The  bee, 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man,  no 

With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 
Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  oak.     I  listen  long 

To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear  115 

The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 
Which  soon  shall  fill  these  deserts:  from  the  ground 
Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft  voice 
Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 
Of  Sabbath  worshippers;  the  low  of  herds  120 

Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 
Over  the  dark-brown  furrows.    All  at  once 
A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by  and  breaks  my  dream, 
And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 
1832.  1833. 

ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 

Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name: 
"  Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link,  5 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee." 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  drest,  10 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat; 
White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest. 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note: 
"Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink;  15 


206  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Look  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee." 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings,  20 

Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings: 
"Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 

Brood,  kind  creature;  you  need  not  fear  25 

Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee." 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 

Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he,  30 

Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat: 
"Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man; 

Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can  I  35 

Chee,  chee,  chee." 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might:  40 

"Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 

Chee,  chee,  chee."  45 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 

Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 
"Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link,  50 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee." 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


207 


Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made  55 

Sober  with  work  and  silent  with  care; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air: 
"Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink;  60 

Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee." 

Summer  wanes;  the  children  are  grown; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows;  65 

Robert  of  Lincoln  's  a  humdrum  crone. 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes: 
"Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 

When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain,  70 

Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee." 

1855. 

THE  WIND  AND  STREAM 

A  brook  came  stealing  from  the  ground: 

You  scarcely  saw  its  silvery  gleam 
Among  the  herbs  that  hung  around 

The  borders  of  that  winding  stream, 
The  pretty  stream,  the  placid  stream,  c 

The  softly-gliding,  bashful  stream. 

A  breeze  came  wandering  from  the  sky, 

Light  as  the  whispers  of  a  dream; 
He  put  the  o'erhanging  grasses  by, 

And  softly  stooped  to  kiss  the  stream,  10 

The  pretty  stream,  the  flattered  stream, 
The  shy  yet  unreluctant  stream. 

The  water,  as  the  wind  passed  o'er, 

Shot  upward  many  a  glancing  beam, 
Dimpled  and  quivered  more  and  more,  15 

And  tripped  along,  a  livelier  stream, 
The  flattered  stream,  the  simpering  stream, 
The  fond,  delighted,  silly  stream. 


208  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Away  the  airy  wanderer  flew 

To  where  the  fields  with  blossoms  teem,  20 

To  sparkling  springs  and  rivers  blue, 

And  left  alone  that  little  stream, 
The  flattered  stream,  the  cheated  stream, 
The  sad,  forsaken,  lonely  stream. 

That  careless  wind  came  never  back,  25 

He  wanders  yet  the  fields,  I  deem; 
But  on  its  melancholy  track 

Complaining  went  that  little  stream, 
The  cheated  stream,  the  hopeless  stream, 
The  ever-murmuring,  mourning  stream.  30 

1*57.  1857. 

THE  DEATH  OF  LINCOLN 

Oh  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 

Gentle  and  merciful  and  just  I 
Who  in  the  fear  of  God  didst  bear 

The  sword  of  power,  a  nation's  trust! 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand  5 

Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 
And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 

That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

Thy  task  is  done;  the  bond  are  free: 

We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave,  10 

Whose  proudest  monument  shall  be 

The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noble  host  of  those  15 

Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  Right. 
1865.  1866. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  209 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

SONNET— TO  SCIENCE 

Science,  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art! 

Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering  eyes. 
Why  preyest  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's  heart, 

Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities  ? 
How  should  he  love  thee,  or  how  deem  thee  wise,  5 

WTio  wouldst  not  leave  him  in  his  wandering 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jewelled  skies, 

Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  wing  ? 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car, 

And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood  10 

To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star  ? 

Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree  ? 

1829. 

SONG  FROM  "AL  AARAAF" 

'Neath  blue-bell  or  streamer, 

Or  tufted  wild  spray 
That  keeps  from  the  dreamer 

The  moonbeam  away, 
Bright  beings  that  ponder,  5 

With  half-closing  eyes, 
On  the  stars  which  your  wonder 

Hath  drawn  from  the  skies, 
Till  they  glance  thro'  the  shade  and 

Come  down  to  your  brow  10 

Like  eyes  of  the  maiden 

Who  calls  on  you  now, — 
Arise  from  your  dreaming 

In  violet  bowers, 
To  duty  beseeming  15 

These  star-litten  hours, 
And  shake  from  your  tresses 

Encumber'd  with  dew 
The  breath  of  those  kisses 

That  cumber  them  too  20 


210  AMERICAN  POEMS 

(Oh,  how,  without  you,  Love, 

Could  angels  be  blest  ?) — 
Those  kisses  of  true  love 

That  lull'd  ye  to  rest! 
Up!  shake  from  your  wing  25 

Each  hindering  thing: 
The  dew  of  the  night- 
It  would  weigh  down  your  flight; 
And  true-love  caresses — 

O,  leave  them  apart;  30 

They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 

But  lead  on  the  heart. 
Ligeia!    Ligeia! 

My  beautiful  one! 
Whose  harshest  idea  35 

Will  to  melody  run, 
O,  is  it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss  ? 
Or,  capriciously  still, 

Like  the  lone  Albatross,  40 

Incumbent  on  night 

(As  she  on  the  air) 
To  keep  watch  with  delight 

On  the  harmony  there  ? 
Ligeia,  wherever  45 

Thy  image  may  be, 
No  magic  shall  sever 

Thy  music  from  thee! 
Thou  hast  bound  many  eyes 

In  a  dreamy  sleep;  50 

But  the  strains  still  arise 

Which  thy  vigilance  keep: 
The  sound  of  the  rain 

Which  leaps  down  to  the  flower, 
And  dances  again  55 

In  the  rhythm  of  the  shower, 
The  murmur  that  springs 

From  the  growing  of  grass, 
Are  the  music  of  things — 

But  are  modell'd,  alas!  60 

Away,  then,  my  dearest, 

O,  hie  thee  away 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE  211 


To  springs  that  lie  clearest 

Beneath  the  moon-ray; 
To  lone  lake  that  smiles,  65 

In  its  dream  of  deep  rest, 
At  the  many  star-isles 

That  enjewel  its  breast. 
Where  wild  flowers,  creeping, 

Have  mingled  their  shade,  70 

On  its  margin  is  sleeping 

Full  many  a  maid; 
Some  have  left  the  cool  glade,  and 

Have  slept  with  the  bee: 
Arouse  them,  my  maiden,  75 

On  moorland  and  lea; 
Go,  breathe  on  their  slumber, 

All  softly  in  ear, 
The  musical  number 

They  slumber 'd  to  hear;  80 

For  what  can  awaken 

An  angel  so  soon, 
Whose  sleep  hath  been  taken 

Beneath  the  cold  moon, 
As  the  spell  which  no  slumber  85 

Of  witchery  may  test, 
The  rhythmical  number 

Which  lull'd  him  to  rest  ? 

1829. 


TO  HELEN 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 

That  weary,  way-worn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 


212  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Lo,  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand  I 

Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land!  15 

1823?  1831. 

ISRAFEL 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

"Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute": 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell),  5 

Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamoured  moon  10 

Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiades,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven.  15 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 

And  the  other  listening  things) 
That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings —  20 

The  trembling  living  wire 

Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 

Where  Love  's  a  grown-up  God,  25 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest  3° 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  213 


An  unimpassioned  song: 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard  because  the  wisest; 
Merrily  live,  and  long! 

The  ecstasies  above  35 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 

With  the  fervour  of  thy  lute: 

Well  may  the  stars  be  mutel 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this  40 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours: 

Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 

Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell  45 

Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell  50 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

1831. 


THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA 

Lo,  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest.  5 

There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 

(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not!) 

Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 

Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky  10 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town; 


214  AMERICAN  POEMS 


But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 

Streams  up  the  turrets  silently —  15 

Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free — 

Up  domes — up  spires — up  kingly  halls — 

Up  fanes — up  Babylon-like  walls — 

Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 

Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers —  20 

Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 

Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 

The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie.  25 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 

While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves  30 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves; 
But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 
In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, 
Not  the  gaily-jewelled  dead 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed:  35 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 
Along  that  wilderness  of  glass; 
No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 
Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea; 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been  40 

On  scenes  less  hideously  serene 

But,  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air! 
The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there, 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 

In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide,  45 

As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven! 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow; 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low; 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans,  50 

Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 

1831. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  215 


THE  SLEEPER 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 

I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 

An  opiate  vapour,  dewy,  dim, 

Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 

And  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop,  5 

Upon  the  quiet  mountain  top, 

Steals  drowsily  and  musically 

Into  the  universal  valley. 

The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave; 

The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave;  10 

Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 

The  ruin  moulders  into  rest; 

Looking  like  Lethe,  see,  the  lake 

A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 

And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake.  15 

All  Beauty  sleeps!     And,  lo,  where  lies 

Irene,  with  her  Destinies! 

Oh,  lady  bright,  can  it  be  right— 

This  window  open  to  the  night  ? 

The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree-top,  zc 

Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop — 

The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 

Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 

And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 

So  fitfully— so  fearfully—  25 

Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 

'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 

That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 

Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall! 

Oh,  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear  ?  sc 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here  ? 

Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 

A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees! 

Strange  is  thy  pallor!  strange  thy  dress! 

Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress,  35 

And  this  all  solemn  silentness! 

The  lady  sleeps!     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep! 


216  AMERICAN  POEMS 


This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy,  40 

This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 

I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 

Forever  with  unopened  eye, 

While  the  pale  sheeted  ghosts  go  by! 

My  love,  she  sleeps!    Oh,  may  her  sleep,  45 

As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep! 
Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep! 
Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 
For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold — 
Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black  50 

And  winged  pannels  fluttering  back, 
Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls, 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals — 
Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 

Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown,  55 

In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone — 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin, 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within.  60 

1831. 

TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine — 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers,  5 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last! 

Ah,  starry  Hope,  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries,  10 

"On!  on!"— but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast! 

For,  alas,  alas,  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er!  15 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  217 

"No  more — no  more — no  more — " 

(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 
To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 

Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 
Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar!  20 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  grey  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 
In  what  ethereal  dances,  25 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

1835- 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 

Radiant  palace — reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion,  5 

It  stood  there; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair! 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow  10 

(This— all  this— was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago) ; 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid,  15 

A  wingM  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows,  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tunfcd  law,  20 

Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting 

(Porphyrogenel) 
,'n  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 


218  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing  25 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing,  30 

In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn!  for  never  morrow  35 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate!) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Ot  the  old  time  entombed.  40 

And  travellers  now,  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river,  45 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

1839. 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM 

Lo,  't  is  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years; 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theater,  to  see  5 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low,  TO 

And  hither  and  thither  fly — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 


EDGA  R  ALLAN  POE  2 1 9 

At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings  15 

Invisible  wo! 

That  motley  drama,  oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not,  20 

Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout  25 

A  crawling  shape  intrude! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude! 
It  writhes!  it  writhes!  with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food,  30 

And  seraphs  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out,  out  are  the  lights — out  all! 

And  over  each  quivering  form 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall,  35 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm; 
While  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy  "Man," 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm.  40 

1843. 


THE  RAVEN 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"T  is  some  visiter,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 


220  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow;  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore,  10 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating,  15 

"  'T  is  some  visiter  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visiter  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger:  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore;  20 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened  wide  the  door — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness,  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering, 

fearing,  25 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word  "Lenore!" 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word  "Lenore!" 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more.     30 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"Surely,"  said  I,  "surely  that  is  something  at  my  window  lattice; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore,— 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore —  35 

'T  is  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he,  not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed  he, 
But  with  mein  of  lord  or  lady  perched  above  my  chamber  door —         40 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door — 

Perched  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  221 


Then,  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  deporum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
''Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "art  sure  no 

craven,  45 

Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore: 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  I" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  little  relevancy,  bore;  50 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door — 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only  55 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered; 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "Other  friends  have  flown  before; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore."       60 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore, 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore  65 

Of  '  Never — nevermore.'  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore,  70 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore, 

Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining  75 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore! 


222  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen 

censer 

Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor  80 

"Wretch!"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee,  by  these  angels  he  hath 

sent  thee, 

Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil!  85 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore, 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore."      90 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil,  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore."         95 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend!"  I  shrieked,  up 
starting; 

"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken! — quit  the  bust  above  my  door!  100 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my 
door!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming,         105 

And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the 

floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore! 
184$ 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  223 


ULALUME 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere — 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere; 

It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year;  5 

It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 

It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic  10 

Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul — 

Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 
These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 

As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll — 

As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll  15 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek, 

In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole — 
That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek, 

In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober,  20 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere — 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere, — 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year 

(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year!) —  25 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here) — 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent  30 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn — 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn,— 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent  5$ 

Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn — 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 


224  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  I  said:  "She  is  warmer  than  Dian: 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs —  40 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs; 
She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies —  45 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies, — 
Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes — 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes."  50 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said:  "Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust — 

Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust: — 
Oh,  hasten! — oh,  let  us  not  linger! 

Oh,  fly! — let  us  fly! — for  we  must."  55 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 
In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 

Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust.  60 

I  replied:  "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming: 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light  I 
Its  Sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  Hope  and  in  Beauty  to-night —  65 

See!  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  nightl 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright — 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright,  70 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche,  and  kissed  her, 

And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom — 

And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom; 
And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista,  75 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb — 

By  the  door  of  a  legendcd  tomb; 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  225 


And  I  said:  "What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb  ?  " 
She  replied:  "Ulalume — Ulalume — •  80 

'T  is  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume!" 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 

As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere — 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere; 

And  I  cried:  "It  was  surely  October  85 

On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here, — 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here: 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here?  90 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber — 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir, — 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber — 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 

1847. 

THE  BELLS 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells- 
Silver  bells! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  1 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night,  5 

While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight, 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme,  ic 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells —  15 

Golden  bells! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


From  the  molten-golden  notes,  20 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells  25 

What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells 
How  it  swells! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future!  how  it  tells 

Of  the  rapture  that  impels  30 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells!  35 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 

Brazen  bells! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 

How  they  scream  out  their  affright!  40 

Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire,          45 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire 
And  a  resolute  endeavour 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never 

By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon.  50 

Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair! 

How  they  clang  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour  55 

On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear,  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  227 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows;  60 

Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 

In  the  jangling 

And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells,        65 

Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  1 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells —  70 

Iron  bells! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 

At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone!  75 

For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple,  80 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone —  85 

They  are  neither  man  nor  woman 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls: 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  go 

Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells, 

And  he  dances  and  he  yells,  95 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells; 


228  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Keeping  time,  time,  time,  100 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time,  105 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  no 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

1848-49.  l849- 


ANNABEL  LEE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought  5 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

7  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love — 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE —  10 

With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling  15 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea.  20 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  229 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes!  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night,  25 

Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above,  30 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE: 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE;  35 

And  the  stars  never  rise  but  1  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  I]EE; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea,  40 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

1849-  l849- 


ELDORADO 

Gaily  bedight, 

A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long, 

Singing  a  song,  5 

In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old — 

This  knight  so  bold,— 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 

Fell  as  he  found  10 

No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  Eldorado. 


2jo  AMERICAN  POEMS 

And,  as  his  strength 
Failed  him  at  length, 

He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow.  15 

"Shadow,"  said  he, 
"Where  can  it  be— 
This  land  of  Eldorado?" 

"Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon,  20 

Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow 
Ride,  boldly  ride," 
The  shade  replied, 
"If  you  seek  for  Eldorado!" 

1849. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK 

On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 

The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell; 

And  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 

With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 

The  glory  that  the  wood  receives,  5 

At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.     One  cloud  of  white, 

Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone,  10 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 

Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 

The  tall,  gray  forest;  and  a  band  15 

Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand. 

Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 

To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  231 

They  sang  that  by  his  native  bowers 

He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers,  20 

And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 

Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head; 

But  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 

So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin  25 

Covered  the  warrior;  and  within 

Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 

For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid, 

The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 

And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads.  30 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 

Chanted  the  death-dirge  of  the  slain; 

Behind,  the  long  procession  came, 

Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 

With  heavy  hearts  and  eyes  of  grief,  35 

Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 

Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 

With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 

And  heavy  and  impatient  tread,  40 

He  came;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 

Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief;   they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed, 

And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way  45 

To  his  stern  heart!     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose, — and  on  the  dead  man's  plain 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 
1825.  1827. 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFE 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID  TO  THE  PSALMIST 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 


232  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Life  is  real!    Life  is  earnest!  5 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 
"Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way,  10 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting; 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 
Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating  15 

Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle; 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife!  20 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant; 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead; 
Act,  act  in  the  living  Present, 

Heart  within  and  God  o'erheadl 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us  25 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time; 

Footprints  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main,  30 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing,  35 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

1838. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  233 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT 


I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls; 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 

From  the  celestial  walls. 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might,  $ 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above  — 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes,  10 

That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  15 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night  1  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before; 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more.  20 

Peace!  Peace!    Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer; 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night! 
1839.  '839. 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy  flax,  5 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds 

That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 


234  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth,  10 

And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Saildr, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main: 

"I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port,  15 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"Last  night  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see!" 
The  skipper  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he.  20 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  northeast; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain  25 

The  vessel  in  its  strength; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frightened  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"Come  hither!  come  hither!  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so;  30 

For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 
That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar,  35 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"O  father!  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring; 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?" 
"T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast!" 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea.  40 

"O  father!  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns; 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?" 
"Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  seal" 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  235 

"O  father!  I  see  a  gleaming  light;  45 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?" 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word; 
A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies,  50 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  sav£d  she  might  be; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave  55 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 

Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 
Like  a  sheeted  ghost  the  vessel  swept 

Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe.  60 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows;  65 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool;  70 

But  the  cruel  rocks  they  gored  her  side 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 

With  the  masts  went  by  the  board; 
Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank —  75 

"Ho!  ho!"  the  breakers  roared! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast  80 


236  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  85 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woel 
1839.  1840. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smithy  stands: 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands, 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms  5 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp  and  black  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can,  10 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge^  15 

With  measured  beat  and  slow, 
Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell  . 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door;  20 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  237 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church,  25 

And  sits  among  his  boys; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  hearTrejoice.  30 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise: 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes  35 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes: 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close;  40 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught: 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life  45 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought; 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 
1839.  1841. 

SERENADE 

Stars  of  the  summer  night, 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light! 

She  sleeps, 
My  lady  sleeps,     ,  5 

Sleeps! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night, 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light! 

She  sleeps,  10 

My  lady  sleeps, 

Sleeps! 


238  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Wind  of  the  summer  night, 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light  I  15 

She  sleeps, 
My  lady  sleeps, 

Sleeps! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night, 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps  20 

Watch,  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps, 
My  lady  sleeps, 

Sleepsl 

1840.  1842. 

THE  RAINY  DAY 

The  day  is  cold  and  dark  and  dreary; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 

And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary.         _^  5 

My  life  is  cold  and  dark  and  dreary; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary; 

My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 

But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 

And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary.  10 

Be  still,  sad  heart,  and  cease  repining; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all: 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary.  1 5 

1841.  1841. 

THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM 

Beside  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand; 
His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 

Was  buried  in  the  sand: 
Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep,  5 

He  saw  his  Native  Land. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  239 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 

The  lordly  Niger  flowed; 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 

Once  more  a  king  he  strode,  10 

And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 

Descend  the  mountain-road. 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 

Among  her  children  stand; 
They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks,  15 

They  held  him  by  the  handl — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids 

And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank;  20 

His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a  martial  clank, 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  steel 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag,  25 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew, 
From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view.  30 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyena  scream, 
And  the  river-horse  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums,  35 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 

Shouted  of  liberty; 
And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free  40 

That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 


240  AMERICAN  POEMS 


He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day; 
For  Death  had  illumined  the  Land  of  Sleep,  45 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away. 
1842.  1842. 

THE  DAY  IS  DONE 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 

Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 

From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village  5 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist; 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist: 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain,  10 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 
That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling,  15 

And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time;  20 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 

Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 
Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor, 

And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet,  25 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  241 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease,  30 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Suck  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction  35 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice.  40 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 

And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 

And  as  silently  steal  away. 
1844.  1844. 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar- trees  their  shadows  throw; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall  5 

An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all 
"  Forever — never! 
Never — forever!" 

Halfway  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 

And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands  10 

From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 

Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 

Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas, 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, 

"Forever — never!  i5 

Never — forever!" 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 


242  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall,  20 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say  at  each  chamber  door, 
"Forever — never! 
Never — forever!" 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth  25 

Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  3° 

"Forever — never! 
Never — forever!" 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality: 

His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared,  35 

The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased, 
"Forever— never! 
Never — forever ! "  4° 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There  youth  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed: 
O  precious  hours!    O  golden  prime, 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time! 

Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold,  45 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told, 
"Forever — never! 
Never — forever  1 " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 

The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night.  5° 

There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 

The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow; 

And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 

Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, 

"  Forever — never  I  5  5 

Never — forever  1 " 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  243 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"Ah,  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ?"  60 

As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply, 
"  Forever — never! 
Never — forever! " 

Never  here,  forever  there,  65 

Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear, — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 

Sayeth  this  incessantly,  70 

"  Forever — never! 

Never — forever!" 
1845-  1845. 

EVANGELINE 

A    TALE    OF    ACADIE 

This  is  the  forest  primeval.     The  murmuring  pines  and  the  hem 
locks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct  in  the  twilight 
Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic, 
Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their  bosoms. 
Loud  from  ite  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced  neighboring  ocean  5 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the  forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval;    but  where  are  the  hearts  that 

beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe  when  he  hears  in  the  woodland  the  voice  of  the 

huntsman  ? 

Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the  home  of  Acadian  fanners, 
Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water  the  woodlands,  10 

Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth  but  reflecting  an  image  of  heaven  ? 
Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the  farmers  forever  departed! 
Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves  when  the  mighty  blasts  of  October 
Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle  them  far  o'er  the  ocean. 
Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beautiful  village  of  Grand-Prf .         15 

Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes  and  endures  and  is  patient, 
Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of  woman's  devotion, 


244  AMERICAN  POEMS 


List  to  the  mournful  tradition  still  sung  by  the  pines  of  the  forest; 
List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of  the  happy. 

PART  THE  FIRST 

i 

In  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin  of  Minas, 
Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand-Pre" 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.     Vast  meadows  stretched  to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks  without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised  with  labor  incessant,      5 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides;  but  at  stated  seasons  the  flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will  o'er  the  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  orchards  and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o'er  the  plain;  and  away  to  the  north 
ward 

Blomidon  rose  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on  the  mountains  10 

Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the  mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley  but  ne'er  from  their  station  descended. 
There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed  the  Acadian  village. 
Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of  oak  and  of  chestnut, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the  reign  of  the  Henries.     15 
Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows;  and  gables  projecting 
Over  the  basement  below  protected  and  shaded  the  door-way. 
There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when  brightly  the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street  and  gilded  the  vanes  on  the  chimneys, 
Matrons  and  maidens  sat,  in  snow-white  caps  and  in  kirtles  20 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning  the  golden 
Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shuttles  within  doors 
Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels  and  the  songs  of  the 

maidens. 

Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest,  and  the  children 
Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended  to  bless  them:  25 

Reverend  walked  he  among  them;  and  up  rose  matrons  and  maidens, 
Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affectionate  welcome. 
Then  came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field;  and  serenely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.     Anon  from  the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs  of  the  village  3° 

Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  incense  ascending, 
Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace  and  contentment. 
Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple  Acadian  farmers, 
Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God  and  of  man.     Alike  were  they  free  from 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


245 


Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the  vice  of  republics:         35 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors  nor  bars  to  their  windows, 
But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the  hearts  of  the  owners; 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived  in  abundance. 
Somewhat  apart  from  the  village,  and  nearer  the  Basin  of 

Minas, 

Benedict  Bellefontaine,  the  wealthiest  farmer  of  Grand-Pre",  40 

Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres;  and  with  him,  directing  his  household, 
Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  pride  of  the  village. 
Stal worth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of  seventy  winters; 
Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered  with  snow-flakes; 
White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks  as  brown  as  the  oak- 
leaves.  45 
Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen  summers. 
Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on  the  thorn  by  the 

wayside — 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the  brown  shade  of  her 

tresses! 

Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that  feed  in  the  meadows. 
When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers  at  noontide  50 

Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah,  fair  in  sooth  was  the  maiden. 
Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the  bell  from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest  with  his  hyssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation  and  scatters  blessings  upon  them, 
Down  the  long  street  she  passed  with  her  chaplet  of  beads  and  her 

missal,  55 

Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle  of  blue,  and  the  ear-rings 
Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since,  as  an  heirloom, 
Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long  generations. 
But  a  celestial  brightness,  a  more  ethereal  beauty, 

Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form  when,  after  confession,  60 

Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's  benediction  upon  her: 
When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing  of  exquisite  music. 

Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the  house  of  the  farmer 
Stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill  commanding  the  sea;  and  a  shady 
Sycamore  grew  by  the  door,  with  a  woodbine  wreathing  around  it.        65 
Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats  beneath;  and  a  footpath 
Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disappeared  in  the  meadow. 
Under  the  sycamore-tree  were  hives  overhung  by  a  penthouse, 
Such  as  the  traveller  sees  in  regions  remote  by  the  roadside, 
Built  o'er  a  box  for  the  poor,  or  the  blessed  image  of  Mary.  70 


246  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was  the  well  with  its  moss- 
grown 

Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a  trough  for  the  horses. 
Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the  north,  were  the  barns  and 

the  farm-yard. 
There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wains  and  the  antique  ploughs  and 

the  harrows; 
There  were  the  folds  for  the  sheep;    and  there,  in  his  feathered 

seraglio,  75 

Strutted  the  lordly  turksy,  and  crowed  the  cock  with  the  self-same 
Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the  penitent  Peter. 
Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  themselves  a  village:  in  each  one 
Far  o'er  the  gable  projected  a  roof  of  thatch;  and  a  staircase, 
Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the  odorous  corn-loft.  80 

There  too  the  dove-cot  stood,  with  its  meek  and  innocent  inmates 
Murmuring  ever  of  love,  while  above  in  the  variant  breezes 
Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and  sang  of  mutation. 

Thus,  at  peace  with  God  and  the  world,  the  farmer  of  Grand-Pre" 
Lived  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline  governed  his  household.         85 
Many  a  youth,  as  he  knelt  in  the  church  and  opened  his  missal, 
Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her,  as  the  saint  of  his  deepest  devotion; 
Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand  or  the  hem  of  her  garment ! 
Many  a  suitor  came  to  her  door,  by  the  darkness  befriended, 
And  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  footsteps,       90 
Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  his  heart  or  the  knocker  of  iron; 
Or  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  Patron  Saint  of  the  village, 
Bolder  grew,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the  dance  as  he  whispered 
Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a  part  of  the  music. 
But  among  all  who  came  young  Gabriel  only  was  welcome,  Q5 

Gabriel  Lajeunesse,  the  son  of  Basil  the  blacksmith, 
Who  was  a  mighty  man  in  the  village,  and  honored  of  all  men— 
For  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all  ages  and  nations, 
Has  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  held  in  repute  by  the  people. 
Basil  was  Benedict's  friend.     Their  children  from  earliest  childhood     100 
Grew  up  together  as  brother  and  sister;  and  Father  Felician, 
Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the  village,  had  taught  them  their 

letters 
Out  of  the  selfsame  book,  with  the  hymns  of  the  church  and  the 

plain-song. 

But  when  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  daily  lesson  completed, 
Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of  Basil  the  blacksmith.  105 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  247 

There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wondering  eyes  to  behold  him 
Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the  horse  as  a  plaything, 
Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place;   while  near  him  the  tire  of  the  cart 
wheel 

Lay  like  a  fiery  snake,  coiled  round  in  a  circle  of  cinders. 
Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without  in  the  gathering  darkness  no 

Bursting  with  light  seemed  the  smithy  through  every  cranny  and 

crevice, 

Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched  the  laboring  bellows; 
And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks  expired  in  the  ashes, 
Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns  going  into  the  chapel. 
Oft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the  swoop  of  the  eagle,  115 

Down  the  hillside  bounding,  they  glided  away  o'er  the  meadow. 
Oft  in  the  barns  they  climbed  to  the  populous  nests  on  the  rafters, 
Seeking  with  eager  eyes  that  wondrous  stone  which  the  swallow 
Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore  the  sight  of  its  fledglings; 
Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone  in  the  nest  of  the  swallow  1  120 

Thus  passed  a  few  swift  years,  and  they  no  longer  were  children. 
He  was  a  valiant  youth;  and  his  face,  like  the  face  of  the  morning, 
Gladdened  the  earth  with  its  light,  and  ripened  thought  into  action. 
She  was  a  woman  now,  with  the  heart  and  hopes  of  a  woman. 
1  Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie  "  was  she  called;  for  that  was  the  sunshine     1 25 
Which,  as  the  farmers  believed,  would  load  their  orchards  with 

apples: 

She,  too,  would  bring  to  her  husband's  house  delight  and  abundance, 
Filling  it  full  of  love  and  the  ruddy  faces  of  children. 

n 

Now  had  the  season  returned  when  the  nights  grow  colder  and 

longer, 

And  the  retreating  sun  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion  enters.  1 30 

Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden  air  from  the  ice-bound, 
Desolate  northern  bays  to  the  shores  of  tropical  islands. 
Harvests  were  gathered  in;  and  wild  with  the  winds  of  September 
Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old  with  the  angel. 
All  the  signs  foretold  a  winter  long  and  inclement:  13 r 

Bees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had  hoarded  their  honey 
Till  the  hives  overflowed;  and  the  Indian  hunters  asserted 
Cold  would  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the  fur  of  the  foxes. 
Such  was  the  advent  of  autumn.     Then  followed  that  beautiful 

season 


248  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the  Summer  of  All-Saints.          140 
Filled  was  the  air  with  a  dreamy  and  magical  light;  and  the  land 
scape 

Lay  as  if  new-created  in  all  the  freshness  of  childhood. 
Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the  restless  heart  of  the 

ocean 

Was  for  a  moment  consoled.     All  sounds  were  in  harmony  blended. 
Voices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of  cocks  in  the  farm-yards,       145 
Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the  cooing  of  pigeons, 
All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs  of  love;  and  the  great 

sun 

Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the  golden  vapors  around  him; 
While,  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and  scarlet  and  yellow, 
Bright  with  the  sheen  of  the  dew,  each  glittering  tree  of  the  forest      150 
Flashed  like  the  plane-tree  the  Persian  adorned  with  mantles  and 

jewels. 

Now  recommenced  the  reign  of  rest  and  affection  and  stillness. 
Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed,  and  twilight  descending 
Brought  back  the  evening  star  to  the  sky,  and  the  herds  to  the 

homestead: 
Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting  their  necks  on  each 

other,  155 

And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling  the  freshness  of  evening. 
Foremost,  bearing  the  bell,  Evangeline's  beautiful  heifer, 
Proud  of  her  snow-white  hide  and  the  ribbon  that  waved  from  her 

collar, 

Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of  human  affection. 
Then  came  the  shepherd  back  with  his  bleating  flocks  from  the  seaside,  160 
Where  was  their  favorite  pasture.     Behind  them  followed   the 

watch-dog, 

Patient,  full  of  importance,  and  grand  in  the  pride  of  his  instinct, 
Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a  lordly  air,  and  superbly 
Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward  the  stragglers: 
Regent  of  flocks  was  he  when  the  shepherd  slept;  their  protector        165 
When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through  the  starry  silence  the 

wolves  howled. 

Late,  with  the  rising  moon,  returned  the  wains  from  the  marshes, 
Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  filled  the  air  with  its  odor. 
Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on  their  manes  and  their 

fetlocks, 
While  aloft  on  their  shoulders  the  wooden  and  ponderous  saddles,       170 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  249 

Painted  with  brilliant  dyes,  and  adorned  with  tassels  of  crimson, 
Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks  heavy  with  blossoms. 
Patiently  stood  the  cows  meanwhile,  and  yielded  their  udders 
Unto  the  milkmaid's  hand;  whilst  loud  and  in  regular  cadence 
Into  the  sounding  pails  the  foaming  streamlets  descended.  175 

Lowing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter  were  heard  in  the  farm-yard, 
Echoed  back  by  the  barns.     Anon  they  sank  into  stillness, 
Heavily  closed,  with  a  jarring  sound,  the  valves  of  the  barn-doors, 
Rattled  the  wooden  bars,  and  all  for  a  season  was  silent. 

Indoors,  warm  by  the  wide-mouthed  fireplace,  idly  the  farmer      180 
Sat  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  watched  how  the  flames  and  the  smoke- 
wreaths 

Struggled  together  like  foes  in  a  burning  city.     Behind  him, 
Nodding  and  mocking  along  the  wall,  with  gestures  fantastic, 
Darted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  vanished  away  into  darkness. 
Faces,  clumsily  carved  in  oak,  on  the  back  of  his  arm-chair  185 

Laughed  in  the  flickering  light;  and  the  pewter  plates  on  the  dresser 
Caught  and  reflected  the  flame,  as  shields  of  armies  the  sunshine. 
Fragments  of  song  the  old  man  sang,  and  carols  of  Christmas, 
Such  as  at  home,  in  the  olden  time,  his  fathers  before  him 
Sang  in  their  Norman  orchards  and  bright  Burgundian  vineyards.       190 
Close  at  her  father's  side  was  the  gentle  Evangeline  seated, 
Spinning  flax  for  the  loom,  that  stood  in  the  corner  behind  her. 
Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  rest  was  its  diligent  shuttle, 
While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel,  like  the  drone  of  a 

bagpipe, 

Followed  the  old  man's  song  and  united  the  fragments  together.          195 
As  in  a  church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir  at  intervals  ceases, 
Footfalls  are  heard  in  the  aisles,  or  words  of  the  priest  at  the  altar, 
So,  in  each  pause  of  the  song,  with  measured  motion  the  clock 

clicked. 
Thus  as  they  sat,  there  were  footsteps  heard,  and,  suddenly 

lifted, 

Sounded  the  wooden  latch,  and  the  door  swung  back  on  its  hinges.     200 
Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it  was  Basil  the  blacksmith, 
And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew  who  was  with  him. 
'Welcome!"  the  farmer  exclaimed,  as  their  footsteps  paused  on  the 

threshold, 

'Welcome,  Basil,  my  friend!     Come,  take  thy  place  on  the  settle 
Close  by  the  chimney-side,  which  is  always  empty  without  thee;         20* 
Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thy  pipe  and  the  box  of  tobacco: 


250  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as  when  through  the  curling 
Smoke  of  the  pipe  or  the  forge  thy  friendly  and  jovial  face  gleams 
Round  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through    the  mist  of  the 

marshes." 

Then,  with  a  smile  of  content,  thus  answered  Basil  the  blacksmith,     210 
Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat  by  the  fireside: 

"Benedict  Bellefontaine,  thou  hast  ever  thy  jest  and  thy  ballad! 
Ever  in  cheerfullest  mood  art  thou,  when  others  are  filled  with 
Gloomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see  only  ruin  before  them. 
Happy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst  picked  up  a  horse 
shoe."  215 
Pausing  a  moment,  to  take  the  pipe  that  Evangeline  brought  him, 
And  with  a  coal  from  the  embers  had  lighted,  he  slowly  continued: 

"Four  days  now  are  passed  since  the  English  ships  at  their  anchors 
Ride  in  the  Gaspereau's  mouth,  with  their  cannon  pointed  against  us. 
What  their  design  may  be  is  unknown;  but  all  are  commanded  220 

On  the  morrow  to  meet  in  the  church,  where  his  Majesty's  mandate 
Will  be  proclaimed  as  law  in  the  land.     Alas,  in  the  mean  time 
Many  surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of  the  people." 
Then  made  answer  the  farmer:  "Perhaps  some  friendlier  purpose 
Brings  these  ships  to  our  shores.     Perhaps  the  harvests  in  England     225 
By  untimely  rains  or  untimelier  heat  have  been  blighted, 
And  from  our  bursting  barns  they  would  feed  their  cattle  and 
children." 

"Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village,"  said  warmly  the  black 
smith, 
Shaking  his  head  as  in  doubt;  then,  heaving  a  sigh,  he  continued: 

"Louisburg  is  not  forgotten,  nor  Beau  S6jour,  nor  Port  Royal.  230 

Many  already  have  fled  to  the  forest,  and  lurk  on  its  outskirts, 
Waiting  with  anxious  hearts  the  dubious  fate  of  to-morrow. 
Arms  have  been  taken  from  us,  and  warlike  weapons  of  all  kinds; 
Nothing  is  left  but  the  blacksmith's  sledge  and  the  scythe  of  the 

mower." 
Then  with  a  pleasant  smile  made  answer  the  jovial  farmer:  235 

"Safer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our  flocks  and  our  cornfields, 
Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes,  besieged  by  the  ocean, 
Than  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the  enemy's  cannon. 
Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may  no  shadow  of  sorrow 
Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth;  for  this  is  the  night  of  the  contract.     240 
Built  are  the  house  and  the  barn:  the  merry  lads  of  the  village 
Strongly  have  built  them  and  well;  and,  breaking  the  glebe  round 
aJ~mut  them. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  251 

Filled  the  barn  with  hay,  and  the  house  with  food  for  a  twelve 
month. 

Ren6  Leblanc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his  papers  and  ink-horn. 
Shall  we  not,  then,  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the  joy  of  our  children  ?"    245 
As  apart  by  the  window  she  stood,  with  her  hand  in  her  lover's, 
Blushing  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that  her  father  had  spoken, 
And  as  they  died  on  his  lips  the  worthy  notary  entered. 

in 

Bent  like  a  laboring  oar  that  toils  in  the  surf  of  the  ocean, 
Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  was  the  form  of  the  notary  public;          250 
Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss  of  the  maize,  hung 
Over  his  shoulders;  his  forehead  was  high;   and  glasses  with  horn- 
bows 

Sat  astride  on  his  nose,  with  a  look  of  wisdom  supernal. 
Father  of  twenty  children  was  he;  and  more  than  a  hundred 
Children's  children  rode  on  his  knee,  and  heard  his  great  watch 

tick.  255 

Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war  had  he  languished  a  captive, 
Suffering  much  in  an  old  French  fort  as  the  friend  of  the  English. 
Now,  though  warier  grown,  without  all  guile  or  suspicion, 
Ripe  in  wisdom  was  he,  but  patient  and  simple  and  childlike. 
He  was  beloved  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by  the  children;  260 

For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou  in  the  forest, 
And  of  the  goblin  that  came  in  the  night  to  water  the  horses, 
And  of  the  white  LStiche,  the  ghost  of  a  child  who  unchristened 
Died,  and  was  doomed  to  haunt  unseen  the  chambers  of  children; 
And  how  on  Christmas  eve  the  oxen  talked  in  the  stable,  265 

And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a  spider  shut  up  in  a  nutshell, 
And  of  the  marvellous  powers  of  four-leaved  clover  and  horse-shoes, 
With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in  the  lore  of  the  village. 
Then  up  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside  Basil  the  blacksmith, 
Knocked  from  his  pipe  the  ashes,  and  slowly  extending  his  right 

hand,  270 

'Father  Leblanc,"  he  exclaimed,  "thou  hast  heard  the  talk  in  the 

village, 
And  perchance  canst  tell  us  some  news  of  these  ships  and  their 

errand." 

Then  with  modest  demeanor  made  answer  the  notary  public: 
"  Gossip  enough  have  I  heard,  in  sooth,  yet  am  never  the  wiser; 
And  what  their  errand  may  be  I  know  not  better  than  others.  275 


252  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Yet  am  I  not  of  those  who  imagine  some  evil  intention 

Brings  them  here;  for  we  are  at  peace,  and  why,  then,  molest  us?" 

"God's  name!"  shouted  the  hasty  and  somewhat  irascible  black 
smith; 

"Must  we  in  all  things  look  for  the  how  and  the  why  and  the  where 
fore? 

Daily  injustice  is  done,  and  might  is  the  right  of  the  strongest!"          280 
But,  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued  the  notary  public: 

"Man  is  unjust,  but  God  is  just,  and  finally  justice 
Triumphs;  and  well  I  remember  a  story,  that  often  consoled  me, 
When  as  a  captive  I  lay  in  the  old  French  fort  at  Port  Royal." 
This  was  the  old  man's  favorite  tale,  and  he  loved  to  repeat  it  285 

When  his  neighbors  complained  that  any  injustice  was  done  them. 

"Once  in  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I  no  longer  remember, 
Raised  aloft  on  a  column,  a  brazen  statue  of  Justice 
Stood  in  the  public  square,  upholding  the  scales  in  its  left  hand 
And  in  its  right  a  sword,  as  an  emblem  that  justice  presided  290 

Over  the  laws  of  the  land  and  the  hearts  and  homes  of  the  people. 
Even  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the  scales  of  the  balance, 
Having  no  fear  of  the  sword  that  flashed  in  the  sunshine  above  them. 
But  in  the  course  of  time  the  laws  of  the  land  were  corrupted; 
Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak  were  oppressed,  and 

the  mighty  295 

Ruled  with  an  iron  rod.    Then  it  chanced  in  a  nobleman's  palace 
That  a  necklace  of  pearls  was  lost,  and  erelong  a  suspicion 
Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  maid  in  the  household. 
She,  after  form  of  trial  condemned  to  die  on  the  scaffold, 
Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of  Justice.  300 

As  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent  spirit  ascended, 
Lo,  o'er  the  city  a  tempest  rose;  and  the  bolts  of  the  thunder 
Smote  the  statue  of  bronze,  and  hurled  in  wrath  from  its  left  hand 
Down  on  the  pavement  below  the  clattering  scales  of  the  balance, 
And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the  nest  of  a  magpie,  305 

Into  whose  clay-built  walls  the  necklace  of  pearls  was  inwoven." 
Silenced  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story  was  ended  the  black 
smith  .  * 
Stood  like  a  man  who  fain  would  speak  but  findeth  no  language; 
All  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines  on  his  face,  as  the  vapors 
Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window-panes  in  the  winter.  310 

Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp  on  the  table, 
Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the  pewter  tankard  with  home-brewed 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  253 

Nut-brown  ale,  that  was  famed  for  its  strength  in  the  village  of 

Grand-Pr6; 

While  from  his  pocket  the  notary  drew  his  papers  and  ink-horn, 
Wrote  with  a  steady  hand  the  date  and  the  age  of  the  parties,  315 

Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of  sheep  and  in  cattle. 
Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and  well  were  completed, 
And  the  great  seal  of  the  law  was  set  like  a  sun  on  the  margin. 
Then  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer  threw  on  the  table 
Three  times  the  old  man's  fee  in  solid  pieces  of  silver;  320 

And  the  notary,  rising,  and  blessing  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom, 
Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank  to  their  welfare. 
Wiping  the  foam  from  his  lip,  he  solemnly  bowed  and  departed, 
While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused  by  the  fireside, 
Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board  out  of  its  corner.  325 

Soon  was  the  game  begun:  in  friendly  contention  the  old  men 
Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit  or  unsuccessful  manoeuvre, 
Laughed  when  a  man  was  crowned  or  a  breach  was  made  in  the 

king-row. 

Meanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  a  window's  embrasure, 
Sat  the  lovers  and  whispered  together,  beholding  the  moon  rise  330 

Over  the  pallid  sea  and  the  silvery  mist  of  the  meadows. 
Silently,  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven, 
Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the  angels. 

Thus  was  the  evening  passed.     Anon  the  bell  from  the  belfry 
Rang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  curfew,  and  straightway  335 

Rose  the  guests  and  departed;   and  silence  reigned  in  the  house 
hold. 

Many  a  farewell  word  and  sweet  good-night  on  the  door-step 
Lingered  long  in  Evangeline's  heart,  and  filled  it  with  gladness. 
Carefully  then  were  covered  the  embers  that  glowed  on  the  hearth 
stone, 

And  on  the  oaken  stairs  resounded  the  tread  of  the  farmer.  340 

Soon  with  a  soundless  step  the  foot  of  Evangeline  followed: 
Up  the  staircase  moved  a  luminous  space  in  the  darkness, 
Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining  face  of  the  maiden. 
Silent  she  passed  the  hall,  and  entered  the  door  of  her  chamber. 
Simple  that  chamber  was,  with  its  curtains  of  white,  and  its  clothes- 
press  345 
Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves  were  carefully  folded 
Linen  and  woollen  stuffs,  by  the  hand  of  Evangeline  woven: 
This  was  the  precious  dower  she  would  bring  to  her  husband  in 
marriage, 


254  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs  of  her  skill  as  a  housewife. 
Soon  she  extinguished  her  lamp,  for  the  mellow  and  radiant  moon 
light  350 
Streamed  through  the  windows  and  lighted  the  room,  till  the  heart 

of  the  maiden 

Swelled  and  obeyed  its  power,  like  the  tremulous  tides  of  the  ocean. 
Ah,  she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold,  as  she  stood  with 
Naked  snow-white  feet  on  the  gleaming  floor  of  her  chamber  1 
Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the  trees  of  the  orchard,  355 

Waited  her  lover  and  watched  for  the  gleam  of  her  lamp  and  her 

shadow. 

Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  at  times  a  feeling  of  sadness 
Passed  o'er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of  clouds  in  the  moon 
light 

Flitted  across  the  floor  and  darkened  the  room  for  a  moment. 
And  as  she  gazed  from  the  window,  she  saw  serenely  the  moon  pass    360 
Forth  from  the  folds  of  a  cloud,  and  one  star  follow  her  footsteps, 
As  out  of  Abraham's  tent  young  Ishmael  wandered  with  Hagar! 

IV 

Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the  village  of  Grand-Pre". 

Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air  the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shadows,  were  riding  at 

anchor.  365 

Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and  clamorous  labor 

Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the  golden  gates  of  the  morning. 

Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the  farms  and  neighboring 
hamlets, 

Came  in  their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe  Acadian  peasants. 

Many  a  glad  good-morrow  and  jocund  laugh  from  the  young  folk       370 

Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from  the  numerous  meadows, 

Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track  of  wheels  in  the  green 
sward, 

Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined,  or  passed  on  the  highway. 

Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of  labor  were  silenced. 

Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people;  and  noisy  groups  at  the 

house-doors  375 

Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and  gossiped  together. 

Every  house  was  an  inn,  where  all  were  welcomed  and  feasted; 

For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like  brothers  together, 

All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what  one  had  was  another's. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  255 

Yet  under  Benedict's  roof  hospitality  seemed  more  abundant:  38*1 

For  Evangeline  stood  among  the  guests  of  her  father; 
Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words  of  welcome  and  gladness 
Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips  and  blessed  the  cup  as  she  gave  it. 

Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of  the  orchard 
Stript  of  its  golden  fruit,  was  spread  the  feast  of  betrothal.  385 

There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the  priest  and  the  notary 

seated; 

There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil  the  blacksmith. 
Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider-press  and  the  beehives, 
Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the  gayest  of  hearts  and  of 

waistcoats: 

Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alternately  played  on  his  snow- 
white  390 
Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind;  and  the  jolly  face  of  the  fiddler 
Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes  are  blown  from  the  embers. 
Gayly  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of  his  fiddle, 
Tom  les  Bourgeois  de  Chartres  and  Le  Carillon  de  Dunkerque, 
And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time  to  the  music.  395 
Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the  dizzying  dances 
Under  the  orchard- trees  and  down  the  path  to  the  meadows; 
Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children  mingled  among  them. 
Fairest  of  all  the  maids  was  Evangeline,  Benedict's  daughter! 
Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son  of  the  blacksmith!  400 

So  passed  the  morning  away.  And,  lo,  with  a  summons  sonorous 
Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over  the  meadows  a  drum  beat. 
Thronged  erelong  was  the  church  with  men.  Without,  in  the 

churchyard, 
Waited  the  women:    they  stood  by  the  graves,  and  hung  on  the 

headstones 

Garlands  of  autumn  leaves  and  evergreens  fresh  from  the  forest.         405 
Then   came   the  guard   from  the  ships,  and,   marching   proudly 

among  them, 

Entered  the  sacred  portal:  with  loud  and  dissonant  clangor 
Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from  ceiling  and  casement, 
Echoed  a  moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponderous  portal 
Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  will  of  the  soldiers.          4ir 
Then  up  rose  their  commander,  and  spake  from  the  steps  of  the 

altar, 

Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the  royal  commission: 
'You  are  convened  this  day,"  he  said,  "by  his  Majesty's  orders. 


256  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Clement  and  kind  has  he  been;    but  how  you  have  answered  his 

kindness, 

Let  your  own  hearts  reply!     To  my  natural  make  and  my  temper      415 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you  I  know  must  be  grievous; 
Yet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the  will  of  our  monarch: 
Namely,  that  all  your  lands  and  dwellings  and  cattle  of  all  kinds 
Forfeited  be  to  the  crown;  and  that  you  yourselves  from  this 

province 

Be  transported  to  other  lands.     God  grant  you  may  dwell  there          420 
Ever  as  faithful  subjects,  a  happy  and  peaceable  people! 
Prisoners  now  I  declare  you,  for  such  is  his  Majesty's  pleasure!" 
As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  the  sultry  solstice  of  summer, 
Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly  sling  of  the  hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  corn  in  the  field  and  shatters  his  windows,     425 
Hiding  the  sun  and  strewing  the  ground  with  thatch  from  the  house- 
roofs, 

Bellowing  fly  the  herds  and  seek  to  break  their  inclosures; 
So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the  words  of  the  speaker. 
Silent  a  moment  they  stood  in  speechless  wonder,  and  then  rose 
Louder  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of  sorrow  and  anger,  430 

And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly  rushed  to  the  doorway. 
Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape;  and  cries  and  fierce  imprecations 
Rang  through  the  house  of  prayer,   and  high  o'er  the  heads  of  the 

others 

Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil  the  blacksmith, 
As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a  spar  is  tossed  by  the  billows:  435 

Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with  passion,  and  wildly  he 

shouted, 
'Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England!    We  never  have  sworn  them 

allegiance! 
Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  seize  on  our  homes  and  our 

harvests!" 

More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the  merciless  hand  of  a  soldier 
Smote  him  upon  the  mouth  and  dragged  him  down  to  the  pave 
ment.  44C 
In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry  contention, 
Lo,  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father  Felician 
Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended  the  steps  of  the  altar. 
Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture  he  awed  into  silence 
All  that  clamorous  throng;  and  thus  he  spake  to  his  people  445 
(Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn;  in  accents  measured  and  mourn 
ful 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  257 

Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin's  alarum,  distinctly  the  clock  strikes): 
"What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children?     What  madness  has  seized 

you? 

Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I  labored  among  you,  and  taught  you, 
Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one  another!  450 

Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils  and  prayers  and  privations  ? 
Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of  love  and  forgiveness  ? 
This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  would  you  profane  it 
Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing  with  hatred? 
Lo,  where  the  crucified  Christ  from  his  cross  is  gazing  upon  you  I         455 
See!  in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meekness  and  holy  compassion  I 
Hark!  how  those  lips  still  repeat  the  prayer,  'O  Father,  forgive 

them!' 

Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when  the  wicked  assail  us; 
Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  'O  Father,  forgive  them!'" 
Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  the  hearts  of  his  people      460 
Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded  the  passionate  out 
break; 

While  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said,  "O  Father,  forgive  them!" 
Then  came  the  evening  service.     The  tapers  gleamed  from  the 

altar. 
Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  the  people 

responded, 

Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts;  and  the  Ave  Maria  465 

Sang  they,  and  fell  on  their  knees,  and  their  souls,  with  devotion 

translated, 
Rose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah  ascending  to  heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the  tidings  of  ill,  and  on 

all  sides 

Wandered,  wailing,  from  house  to  house  the  women  and  children. 
Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline  stood,  with  her  right  hand          470 
Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of  the  sun,  that,  descending, 
Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious  splendor,  and  roofed  each 
Peasant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and  emblazoned  its  windows. 
Long  within  had  been  spread  the  snow-white  cloth  on  the  table: 
There  stood  the  wheaten  loaf,  and  the  honey  fragrant  with  wild 

flowers;  475 

There  stood  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the  cheese  fresh  brought  from 

the  dairy, 

And  at  the  head  of  the  board  the  great  arm-chair  of  the  farmer. 
Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's  door,  as  the  sunset 


258  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o'er  the  broad  ambrosial  meadows. 
Ah,  on  her  spirit  within  a  deeper  shadow  had  fallen,  480 

And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a  fragrance  celestial  ascended — 
Charity,  meekness,  love,  and  hope,  and  forgiveness,  and  patience  1 
Then,  all-forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered  into  the  village, 
Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  mournful  hearts  of  the  women, 
As  o'er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering  steps  they  departed,  485 

Urged  by  their  household  cares  and  the  weary  feet  of  their  children. 
Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden,  glimmering  vapors 
Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  Prophet  descending  from  Sinai. 
Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the  Angelus  sounded. 

Meanwhile,  amid  the  gloom,  by  the  church  Evangeline  lingered.     490 
All  was  silent  within;  and  in  vain  at  the  door  and  the  windows 
Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  till,  overcome  by  emotion, 
' Gabriel  1"  cried  she  aloud  with  tremulous  voice;  but  no  answer 
Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead  nor  the  gloomier  grave  of  the 

living. 

Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenantless  house  of  her  father:    495 
Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the  board  was  the  supper 

un  tasted; 
Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and  haunted  with  phantoms  of 

terror; 

Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the  floor  of  her  chamber. 
In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  disconsolate  rain  fall 
Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  sycamore- tree  by  the  window;        500 
Keenly  the  lightning  flashed;  and  the  voice  of  the  echoing  thunder 
Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven  and  governed  the  world  he  created  I 
Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had  heard  of  the  justice  of 

heaven; 
Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she  peacefully  slumbered  till 

morning. 

v 

Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set;  and  now  on  the  fifth  day          505 
Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids  of  the  farmhouse. 
Soon  o'er  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and  mournful  procession, 
Came  from  the  neighboring  hamlets  and  farms  the  Acadian  women, 
Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household  goods  to  the  sea-shore, 
Pausing  and  looking  back  to  gaze  once  more  on  their  dwellings,  510 

Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  winding  road  and  the  wood 
land. 
Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and  urged  on  the  oxen, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  259 

While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some  fragments  of  play 
things. 
Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  they  hurried;  and  there  on  the 

sea-beach, 

Piled  in  confusion,  lay  the  household  goods  of  the  peasants.  515 

All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships  did  the  boats  ply; 
All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down  from  the  village. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near  to  his  setting, 
Echoed  far  o'er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of  drums  from  the  church 
yard. 

Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged:  on  a  sudden  the  church- 
doors  520 
Opened,  and   forth   came   the  guard,   and,   marching  in  gloomy 

procession, 

Followed  the  long-imprisoned  but  patient  Acadian  farmers. 
Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their  homes  and  their 

country, 

Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are  weary  and  wayworn, 
So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian  peasants  descended  525 

Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid  their  wives  and  their 

daughters. 

Foremost  the  young  men  came;  and,  raising  together  their  voices, 
Sang  with  tremulous  lips  a  chant  of  the  Catholic  Missions: 
'Sacred  heart  of  the  Saviour!    O  inexhaustible  fountain! 
Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and  submission  and  patience!"      530 
Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and  the  women  that  stood  by 

the  wayside 
Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm;   and  the  birds  in  the  sunshine  above 

them 

Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices  of  spirits  departed. 
Half-way  down  to  the  shore  Evangeline  waited  in  silence, 
Not  overcome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the  hour  of  affliction;  535 

Calmly  and  sadly  she  waited,  until  the  procession  approached  her 
And  she  beheld  the  face  of  Gabriel  pale  with  emotion. 
Tears  then  rilled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  running  to  meet  him, 
Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and 

whispered, 

'Gabriel,  be  of  good  cheer!  for  if  we  love  one  another,  540 

Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  us,  whatever  mischances  may  happen  1" 
Smiling  she  spake  these  words;    then  suddenly  paused,  for  her 
father 


260  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Saw  she  slowly  advancing.     Alas,  how  changed  was  his  aspect! 
Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  cheek,  and  the  fire  from  his  eye,  and 

his  footstep 

Heavier  seemed  with  the  weight  of  the  heavy  heart  in  his  bosom.        545 
But  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh  she  clasped  his  neck  and  embraced  him, 
Speaking  words  of  endearment  where  words  of  comfort  availed  not. 
Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  moved  on  that  mournful  procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  and  stir  of  embarking. 
Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats;  and  in  the  confusion  550 

Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and  mothers,  too  late,  saw 

their  children 

Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms  with  wildest  entreaties. 
So  unto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Gabriel  carried, 
While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline  stood  with  her  father. 
Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went  down,  and  the 

twilight  555 

Deepened  and  darkened  around;  and  in  haste  the  refluent  ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the  sand-beach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and  the  slippery  sea 
weed. 

Farther  back,  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods  and  the  wagons, 
Like  to  a  gypsy  camp  or  a  leaguer  after  a  battle,  560 

All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea  and  the  sentinels  near  them, 
Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Acadian  farmers. 
Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the  bellowing  ocean, 
Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  pebbles,  and  leaving 
Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats  of  the  sailors.  565 

Then,   as   the   night   descended,    the   herds   returned    from   their 

pastures; 
Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor  of  milk  from  their 

udders: 
Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well-known  bars  of  the 

farmyard, 

Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and  the  hand  of  the  milk 
maid. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  streets;  from  the  church  no  Angelus  sounded,     570 
Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed  no  lights  from  the 

windows. 

But  on  the  shores  meanwhile  the  evening  fires  had  been  kindled, 
Built  of  the  drift-wood  thrown  on  the  sands  from  wrecks  in  the 
tempest. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  261 

Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful  faces  were  gathered, 

Voices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men,  and  the  crying  of  children.     575 

Onward  from  fire  to  fire,  as  from  hearth  to  hearth  in  his  parish, 

Wandered  the  faithful  priest,  consoling  and  blessing  and  cheering, 

Like  unto  shipwrecked  Paul  on  Melita's  desolate  sea-shore. 

Thus  he  approached  the  place  where   Evangeline  sat  with  her 

father, 

And  in  the  flickering  light  beheld  the  face  of  the  old  man,  580 

Haggard  and  hollow  and  wan,  and  without  either  thought  or 

emotion, 

E'en  as  the  face  of  a  clock  from  which  the  hands  have  been  taken. 
Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and  caresses  to  cheer  him, 
Vainly  offered  him  food;    yet  he  moved  not,  he  looked  not,  he 

spake  not, 

But  with  a  vacant  stare  ever  gazed  at  the  flickering  fire-light.  585 

'  Benedicite!"  murmured  the  priest,  in  tones  of  compassion. 
More  he  fain  would  have  said;    but  his  heart  was  full,  and  his 

accents 

Faltered  and  paused  on  his  lips,  as  the  feet  of  a  child  on  a  threshold, 
Hushed  by  the  scene  he  beholds,  and  the  awful  presence  of  sorrow. 
Silently,  therefore,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the  maiden,  590 

Raising  his  tearful  eyes  to  the  silent  stars  that  above  them 
Moved  on  their  way,  unperturbed  by  the  wrongs  and  sorrows  of 

mortals; 

Then  sat  he  down  at  her  side,  and  they  wept  together  in  silence. 
Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as  in  autumn  the  blood- 
red 

Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and  o'er  the  horizon  595 

Titan-like  stretches  its  hundred  hands  upon  mountain  and  meadow, 
Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers,  and  piling  huge  shadows  together. 
Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs  of  the  village, 
Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  ships  that  lay  in  the  road 
stead. 

Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes  of  flame  were  600 

Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn,  like  the  quivering  hands 

of  a  martyr. 
Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burning  thatch,  and, 

uplifting, 

Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once  from  a  hundred  house 
tops 
Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of  flame  intermingled. 


262  AMERICAN  POEMS 


These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd  on  the  shore  and  on 

shipboard:  605 

Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aloud  in  their  anguish, 
"We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in  the  village  of  Grand-Pr6!" 
Loud  on  a  sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in  the  farm-yards, 
Thinking  the  day  had  dawned;  and  anon  the  lowing  of  cattle 
Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking  of  dogs  interrupted.         610 
Then  rose  a  sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles  the  sleeping  encamp 
ments, 

Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that  skirt  the  Nebraska, 
When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by  with  the  speed  of  the 

whirlwind, 

Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush  to  the  river: 
Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night,  as  the  herds  and  the 

horses  615 

Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and  madly  rushed  o'er  the 

meadows. 
Overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  yet  speechless,  the  priest  and 

the  maiden 
Gazed  on  the  scene  of  terror  that  reddened  and  widened  before 

them; 

And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak  to  their  silent  companion, 
Lo,  from  his  seat  he  had  fallen,  and,  stretched  abroad  on  the  sea 
shore,  620 
Motionless  lay  his  form,  from  which  the  soul  had  departed  1 
Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head,  and  the  maiden 
Knelt  at  her  father's  side,  and  wailed  aloud  in  her  terror; 
Then  in  a  swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her  head  on  his  bosom. 
Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep,  oblivious  slumber;                   625 
And  when  she  woke  from  the  trance,  she  beheld  a  multitude  near  her; 
Faces  of  friends  she  beheld,  that  were  mournfully  gazing  upon  her, 
Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes  and  looks  of  saddest  compassion. 
Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illumined  the  landscape, 
Reddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed  on  the  faces  around  her,      630 
And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  her  wavering  senses. 
Then  a  familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said  to  the  people, 
"Let  us  bury  him  here  by  the  sea:  when  a  happier  season 
Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  unknown  land  of  our  exile, 
Then  shall  his  sacred  dust  be  piously  laid  in  the  churchyard."             635 
Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest;  and  there  in  haste  by  the  seaside, 
Having  the  glare  of  the  burning  village  for  funeral  torches, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  263 

But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the  farmer  of  Grand-Pr6. 
And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the  service  of  sorrow, 
Lo,  with  a  mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a  vast  congregation,        640 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea  and  mingled  its  roar  with  the  dirges: 
'T  was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the  waste  of  the  ocean, 
With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving  and  hurrying  land 
ward. 

Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise  of  embarking; 
And  with  the  ebb  of  the  tide  the  ships  sailed  out  of  the  harbor,  645 

Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore  and  the  village  in  ruins. 

PART  THE  SECOND 

i 

Many  a  weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning  of  Grand-Pre", 
When  on  the  falling  tide  the  freighted  vessels  departed, 
Bearing  a  nation,  with  all  its  household  gods,  into  exile, 
Exile  without  an  end  and  without  an  example  in  story. 
Far  asunder,  on  separate  coasts,  the  Acadians  landed;  5 

Scattered  were  they,  like  flakes  of  snow  when  the  wind  from  the 

northeast 

Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken  the  Banks  of  Newfound 
land. 

Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they  wandered  from  city  to  city, 
From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry  Southern  savannas, 
From  the  bleak  shores  of  the  sea  to  the  lands  where  the  Father  of 

Waters  I0 

Seizes  the  hills  in  his  hands  and  drags  them  down  to  the  ocean, 
Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered  bones  of  the  mammoth. 
Friends  they  sought,  and  homes;  and  many,  despairing,  heartbroken, 
Asked  of  the  earth  but  a  grave,  and  no  longer  a  friend  nor  a  fireside: 
Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of  stone  in  the  churchyards.         1 5 
Long  among  them  was  seen  a  maiden  who  waited  and  wandered, 
Lowly  and  meek  in  spirit,  and  patiently  suffering  all  things. 
Fair  was  she  and  young;  but,  alas,  before  her  extended, 
Dreary  and  vast  and  silent,  the  desert  of  life,  with  its  pathway 
Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  had  sorrowed  and  suffered 

before  her,  2O 

Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long  dead  and  abandoned, 
As  the  emigrant's  way  o'er  the  Western  desert  is  marked  by 
Camp-fires  long  consumed  and  bones  that  bleach  in  the  sunshine. 


264  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete,  imperfect,  unfinished; 

As  if  a  morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music  and  sunshine,  25 

Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading,  slowly  descended 

Into  the  east  again,  from  whence  it  late  had  arisen. 

Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till,  urged  by  the  fever  within  her, 

Urged  by  a  restless  longing,  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  spirit, 

She  would  commence  again  her  endless  search  and  endeavor:  30 

Sometimes  in  churchyards  strayed,  and  gazed  on  the  crosses  and 

tombstones; 

Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought  that  perhaps  in  its  bosom 
He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to  slumber  beside  him. 
Sometimes  a  rumor,  a  hearsay,  an  inarticulate  whisper, 
Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon  her  forward.  35 

Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had  seen  her  beloved  and 

known  him, 

But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place  or  forgotten. 
"Gabriel  Lajeunesse!"  they  said;  "O,  yes!  we  have  seen  him. 
He  was  with  Basil  the  blacksmith,  and  both  have  gone  to  the  prairies; 
Coureurs-des-Bois  are  they,  and  famous  hunters  and  trappers."  40 

"Gabriel  Lajeunesse!"  said  others;   "O,  yes!  we  have  seen  him. 
He  is  a  Voyageur  in  the  lowlands  of  Louisiana." 
Then  would  they  say,  "Dear  child,  why  dream  and  wait  for  him 

longer  ? 

Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Gabriel  ?  others 
Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and  spirits  as  loyal  ?  45 

Here  is  Baptiste  Leblanc,  the  notary's  son,  who  has  loved  thee 
Many  a  tedious  year;   come,  give  him  thy  hand  and  be  happy! 
Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left  to  braid  St.  Catherine's  tresses." 
Then  would  Evangeline  answer,  serenely  but  sadly,  "I  cannot! 
Whither  my  heart  has  gone,  there  follows  my  hand  and  not  else 
where;  50 
For  when  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a  lamp,  and  illumines  the  path 
way, 

Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie  hidden  in  darkness." 
Thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father-confessor, 
Said  with  a  smile,  "O  daughter,  thy  God  thus  speaketh  within  theel 
Talk  not  of  wasted  affection:  affection  never  was  wasted;  55 

If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters,  returning 
Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them  full  of  refreshment; 
That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns  again  to  the  fountain. 
Patience!  accomplish  thy  labor;   accomplish  thy  work  of  affection! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  265 

Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  endurance  is  godlike.  60 

Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till  the  heart  is  made  godlike, 
Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  rendered  more  worthy  of 

heaven!" 

Cheered  by  the  good  man's  words,  Evangeline  labored  and  waited. 
Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge  of  the  ocean, 
But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled  a  voice  that  whispered, 

"Despair  not!"  65 

Thus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and  cheerless  discomfort, 
Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and  thorns  of  existence. 

Let  me  essay,  O  Muse,  to  follow  the  wanderer's  footsteps — 
Not  through  each  devious  path,  each  changeful  year  of  existence, 
But  as  a  traveller  follows  a  streamlet's  course  through  the  valley:          70 
Far  from  its  margin  at  times,  and  seeing  the  gleam  of  its  water 
Here  and  there,  in  some  open  space,  and  at  intervals  only; 
Then,  drawing  nearer  its  banks,  through  sylvan  glooms  that  conceal  it, 
Though  he  behold  it  not,  he  can  hear  its  continuous  murmur; 
Happy,  at  length,  if  he  find  the  spot  where  it  reaches  an  outlet.  75 

n 

It  was  the  month  of  May.     Far  down  the  Beautiful  River, 
Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth  of  the  Wabash, 
Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and  swift  Mississippi, 
Floated  a  cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed  by  Acadian  boatmen. 
It  was  a  band  of  exiles,  a  raft,  as  it  were,  from  the  shipwrecked  80 

Nation,  scattered  along  the  coast,  now  floating  together, 
Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  belief  and  a  common  misfortune; 
Men  and  women  and  children,  who,  guided  by  hope  or  by  hearsay, 
Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among  the  few-acred  farmers 
On  the  Acadian  Coast,  and  the  prairies  of  fair  Opelousas.  85 

With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her  guide  the  Father  Felician. 
Onward  o'er  sunken  sands,  through  a  wilderness  sombre  with  forests, 
Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbulent  river; 
Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  encamped  on  its  borders. 
Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands,  where  plume-like      oo 
Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they  swept  with  the 

current; 

Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery  sand-bars 
Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves  of  their  margin, 
Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of  pelicans  waded. 
Level  the  landscape  grew;  and  along  the  shores  of  the  river,  95 


266  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant  gardens, 
Stood  the  houses  of  planters  with  negro-cabins  and  dove-cots. 
They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns  perpetual  summer, 
Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves  of  orange  and  citron, 
Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to  the  eastward.  100 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course;   and,  entering  the  Bayou  of 

Plaquemine, 

Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and  devious  waters, 
Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in  every  direction. 
Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous  boughs  of  the  cypress 
Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid-air  105 

Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  ancient  cathedrals. 
Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken  save  by  the  herons 
Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  returning  at  sunset, 
Or  by  the  owl  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with  demoniac  laughter. 
Lovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and  gleamed  on  the  water,         no 
Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and  cedar  sustaining  the  arches, 
Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell  as  through  chinks  in  a  ruin. 
Dreamlike  and  indistinct  and  strange  were  all  things  around  them; 
And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a  feeling  of  wonder  and  sadness — 
Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  and  that  cannot  be  compassed.          115 
As,  at  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the  turf  of  the  prairies, 
Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the  shrinking  mimosa, 
So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  forebodings  of  evil, 
Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart  ere  the  stroke  of  doom  has  attained  it. 
But  Evangeline's  heart  was  sustained  by  a  vision,  that  faintly  120 

Floated  before  her  eyes  and  beckoned  her  on  through  the  moonlight: 
It  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  assumed  the  shape  of  a  phantom — 
Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Gabriel  wandered  before  her, 
And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought  him  nearer  and  nearer. 
Then,  in  his  place  at  the  prow  of  the  boat,  rose  one  of  the 

oarsmen,  125 

And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  peradventure 
Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight  streams,  blew  a  blast  on  his 

bugle. 

Wild  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors  leafy  the  blast  rang, 
Breaking  the  seal  of  silence  and  giving  tongues  to  the  forest: 
Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just  stirred  to  the  music;       130 
Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  distance, 
Over  the  watery  floor  and  beneath  the  reverberant  branches. 
But  not  a  voice  replied;  no  answer  came  from  the  darkness; 


HENRY  WADSWORTU  LONGFELLOW  267 

And  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a  sense  of  pain  was  the  silence. 
Then  Evangeline  slept;   but  the  boatmen  rowed  through  the  mid 
night,  *35 
Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Canadian  boat-songs, 
Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian  rivers, 
While  through  the  night  were  heard  the  mysterious  sounds  of  the 

desert, 

Far  off,  indistinct,  ,as  of  wave  or  wind  in  the  forest, 
Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and  the  roar  of  the  grim  alligator.     140 
Thus  ere  another  noon  they  emerged  from  the  shades;    and 

before  them 

Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Atchafalaya. 
Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight  undulations 
Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent  in  beauty,  the  lotus 
Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the  boatmen.  145 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of  magnolia  blossoms, 
And  with  the  heat  of  noon;  and  numberless  sylvan  islands, 
Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blossoming  hedges  of  roses, 
Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along,  invited  to  slumber. 
Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary  oars  were  suspended:  150 

Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows  that  grew  by  the  margin, 
Safely  their  boat  was  moored;   and,  scattered  about  on  the  green 
sward, 

Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary  travellers  slumbered. 
Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope  of  a  cedar: 
Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet-flower  and  the  grape 
vine  *55 
Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  ladder  of  Jacob, 
On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascending,  descending, 
Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted  from  blossom  to  blossom. 
Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she  slumbered  beneath  it; 
Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the  dawn  of  an  opening  heaven       16 
Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of  regions  celestial. 
Nearer  and  ever  nearer,  among  the  numberless  islands, 
Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o'er  the  water, 
Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of  hunters  and  trappers; 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of  the  bison  and  beaver.     165 
At  the  helm  sat  a  youth,  with  countenance  thoughtful  and  careworn: 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his  brow,  and  a  sadness 
Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was  legibly  written. 
Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy  and  restless. 


268  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of  self  and  of  sorrow.  170 

Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of  the  island, 

But  by  the  opposite  bank  and  behind  a  screen  of  palmettos, 

So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat  where  it  lay  concealed  in  the  willows, 

All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and  unseen,  were  the 

sleepers: 

Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the  slumbering  maiden.          175 
Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  a  cloud  on  the  prairie. 
After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had  died  in  the  distance, 
As  from  a  magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke;   and  the  maiden 
Said  with  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  "O  Father  Felician, 
Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me  Gabriel  wanders.  180 

Is  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  superstition  ? 
Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the  truth  to  my  spirit  ?" 
Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added,  "Alas  for  my  credulous  fancy! 
Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these  have  no  meaning." 
But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he  smiled  as  he  answered,         185 
"Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle,  nor  are  they  to  me  without  meaning. 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still;  and  the  word  that  floats  on  the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy  that  betrays  where  the  anchor  is  hidden: 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart  and  to  what  the  world  calls  illusions. 
Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee;  for  not  far  away  to  the  southward,  IQC 

On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns  of  St.  Maur  and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be  given  again  to  her  bride 
groom, 

There  the  long-absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and  his  sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and  forests  of  fruit-trees; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest  of  heavens  195 

Bending  above  and  resting  its  dome  on  the  walls  of  the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden  of  Louisiana." 

With  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and  continued  their  journey. 
Softly  the  evening  came:  the  sun  from  the  western  horizon 
Like  a  magician  extended  his  golden  wand  o'er  the  landscape;  aoc 

Twinkling  vapors  arose;  and  sky  and  water  and  forest 
Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted  and  mingled  together; 
Hanging  between  two  skies,  a  cloud  with  edges  of  silver, 
Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars,  on  the  motionless  water. 
Filled  was  Evangeline's  heart  with  inexpressible  sweetness:  205 

Touched  by  the  magic  spell,  the  sacred  fountains  of  feeling 
Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies  and  waters  around  her. 
Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket  the  mocking-bird,  wildest  of  singers, 


HENRY  WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW  269 

Swinging  aloft  on  a.  willow  spray  that  hung  o'er  the  water, 

Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of  delirious  music  aio 

That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the  waves  seemed  silent  to 

listen: 

Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad;  then,  soaring  to  madness, 
Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel  of  frenzied  Bacchantes; 
Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low  lamentation; 
Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung  them  abroad  in  derision,          215 
As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through  the  tree-tops 
Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal  shower  on  the  branches. 
With  such  a  prelude  as  this,  and  hearts  that  throbbed  with  emotion, 
Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it  flows  through  the  green 

Opelousas, 

And  through  the  amber  air,  above  the  crest  of  the  woodland,  220 

Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from  a  neighboring  dwelling: 
Sounds  of  a  horn  they  heard,  and  the  distant  lowing  of  cattle. 


m 

Near  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o'ershadowed  by  oaks,  from  whose 

branches 

Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic  mistletoe  flaunted, 
Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden  hatchets  at  Yule-tide,          225 
Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the  herdsman.     A  garden 
Girded  it  round  about  with  a  belt  of  luxuriant  blossoms, 
Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.     The  house  itself  was  of  timbers 
Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully  fitted  together. 
Large  and  low  was  the  roof;  and  on  slender  columns  supported,          230 
Rose-wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a  broad  and  spacious  veranda, 
Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee,  extended  around  it. 
At  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers  of  the  garden, 
Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love's  perpetual  symbol, 
Scenes  of  endless  wooing  and  endless  contentions  of  rivals.  235 

Silence  reigned  o'er  the  place.    The  line  of  shadow  and  sunshine 
Ran  near  the  tops  of  the  trees;  but  the  house  itself  was  in  shadow, 
And  from  its  chimney-too,  ascending  and  slowly  expanding 
Into  the  evening  air,  a  thin  blue  column  of  smoke  rose. 
In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden  gate,  ran  a  pathway  240 

Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the  skirts  of  the  limitless  prairie, 
Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was  slowly  descending. 
Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with  shadowy  canvas 


270  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a  motionless  calm  in  the  tropics, 
Stood  a  cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cordage  of  grape-vines.  245 

Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flowery  surf  of  the  prairie, 
Mounted  upon  his  horse,  with  Spanish  saddle  and  stirrups, 
Sat  a  herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and  doublet  of  deerskin. 
Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from  under  the  Spanish  sombrero 
Gazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  the  lordly  look  of  its  master.  250 

Round  about  him  were  numberless  herds  of  kine,  that  were  grazing 
Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the  vapory  freshness 
That  uprose  from  the  river  and  spread  itself  over  the  landscape. 
Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side,  and  expanding 
Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a  blast,  that  resounded  255 

Wildly  and  sweet  and  far,  through  the  still  damp  air  of  the  evening. 
Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white  horns  of  the  cattle 
Rose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  currents  of  ocean: 
Silent  a  moment  they  gazed,  then  bellowing  rushed  o'er  the  prairie, 
And  the  whole  mass  became  a  cloud,  a  shade  in  the  distance.  260 

Then,  as  the  herdsman  turned  to  the  house,  through  the  gate  of  the 

garden 

Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the  maiden  advancing  to  meet  him. 
Suddenly  down  from  his  horse  he  sprang  in  amazement,  and  forward 
Rushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclamations  of  wonder; 
When  they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognized  Basil  the  blacksmith.         265 
Hearty  his  welcome  was,  as  he  led  his  guests  to  the  garden. 
There,  in  an  arbor  of  roses,  with  endless  question  and  answer 
Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed  their  friendly  embraces, 
Laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  or  sitting  silent  and  thoughtful — 
Thoughtful,  for  Gabriel  came  not:    and  now  dark  doubts  and 

misgivings  270 

Stole  o'er  the  maiden's  heart;  and  Basil,  somewhat  embarrassed, 
Broke  the  silence  and  said,  "If  you  came  by  the  Atchafalaya, 
How  have  you  nowhere  encountered  my  Gabriel's  boat  on  the 

bayous  ?" 

Over  Evangeline's  face  at  the  words  of  Basil  a  shade  passed; 
Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said,  with  a  tremulous  accent,          275 

"  Gone  ?  is  Gabriel  gone  ?"  and,  concealing  her  face  on  his  shoulder, 
All  her  o'erburdened  heart  gave  way,  and  she  wept  and  lamented. 
Then  the  good  Basil  said, — and  his  voice  grew  blithe  as  he  said  it, — 

"Be  of  good  cheer,  my  child;  it  is  only  to-day  he  departed. 
Foolish  boy!  he  has  left  me  alone  with  my  herds  and  my  horses.         280 
Moody  and  restless  grown,  and  tried  and  troubled,  his  spirit 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  271 

Could  no  longer  endure  the  calm  of  this  quiet  existence. 
Thinking  ever  of  thee,  uncertain  and  sorrowful  ever, 
Ever  silent,  or  speaking  only  of  thee  and  his  troubles, 
He  at  length  had  become  so  tedious  to  men  and  to  maidens,  285 

Tedious  even  to  me,  that  at  length  I  bethought  me,  and  sent  him 
Unto  the  town  of  Adayes  to  trade  for  mules  with  the  Spaniards. 
Thence  he  will  follow  the  Indian  trails  to  the  Ozark  Mountains, 
Hunting  for  furs  in  the  forests,  on  rivers  trapping  the  beaver. 
Therefore  be  of  good  cheer:  we  will  follow  the  fugitive  lover;  ago 

He  is  not  far  on  his  way,  and  the  Fates  and  the  streams  are  against 

him. 

Up  and  away  to-morrow,  and  through  the  red  dew  of  the  morning 
We  will  follow  him  fast,  and  bring  him  back  to  his  prison." 

Then  glad  voices  were  heard,  and  up  from  the  banks  of  the  river, 
Borne  aloft  on  his  comrades'  arms,  came  Michael  the  fiddler.  295 

Long  under  Basil's  roof  had  he  lived  like  a  god  on  Olympus, 
Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing  music  to  mortals: 
Far  renowned  was  he  for  his  silver  locks  and  his  fiddle. 
"Long  live  Michael,"  they  cried,  "our  brave  Acadian  minstrel!" 
As  they  bore  him  aloft  in  triumphal  procession;  and  straightway        300 
Father  Felician  advanced  with  Evangeline,  greeting  the  old  man 
Kindly  and  oft,  and  recalling  the  past,  while  Basil,  enraptured, 
Hailed  with  hilarious  joy  his  old  companions  and  gossips, 
Laughing  loud  and  long,  and  embracing  mothers  and  daughters. 
Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of  the  ci-devant  black 
smith,  305 
All  his  domains  and  his  herds,  and  his  patriarchal  demeanor; 
Much  they  marvelled  to  hear  his  tales  of  the  soil  and  the  climate, 
And  of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless  herds  were  his  who  would 

take  them; 

Each  one  thought  in  his  heart  that  he,  too,  would  go  and  do  likewise. 
Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and,  crossing  the  breezy  veranda,         310 
Entered  the  hall  of  the  house,  where  already  the  supper  of  Basil 
Waited  his  late  return;  and  they  rested  and  feasted  together. 

Over  the  joyous  feast  the  sudden  darkness  descended. 
All  was  silent  without,  and,  illuming  the  landscape  with  silver, 
Fair  rose  the  dewy  moon  and  the  myriad  stars;  but  within  doors,       315 
Brighter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of  friends  in  the  glimmering 

lamplight. 

Then  from  his  station  aloft,  at  the  head  ol  the  table,  the  herdsman 
Poured  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine  together  in  endless  profusion. 


272  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Lighting  his  pipe,  that  was  filled  with  sweet  Natchitoches  tobacco, 
Thus  he  spake  to  his  guests,  who  listened,  and  smiled  as  they 

listened:  320 

'Welcome  once  more,  my  friends,  who  long  have  been  friendless  and 

homeless, 
Welcome  once  more  to  a  home,  that  is  better  perchance  than  the  old 

one! 

Here  no  hungry  winter  congeals  our  blood  like  the  rivers; 
Here  no  stony  ground  provokes  the  wrath  of  the  farmer — 
Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through  the  soil  as  a  keel  through 

the  water;  325 

All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are  in  blossom,  and  grass  grows 
More  in  a  single  night  than  a  whole  Canadian  summer. 
Here,  too,  numberless  herds  run  wild  and  unclaimed  in  the  prairies; 
Here,  too,  lands  may  be  had  for  the  asking,  and  forests  of  timber 
With  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  are  hewn  and  framed  into  houses.  330 

After  your  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields  are  yellow  with  harvests, 
No  King  George  of  England  shall  drive  you  away  from  your  home 
steads, 
Burning  your  dwellings  and  barns,  and  stealing  your  farms  and  your 

cattle." 

Speaking  these  words,  he  blew  a  wrath*;*!  cloud  from  his  nostrils, 
While  his  huge,  brown  hand  came  thundering  down  on  the  table,         335 
So  that  the  guests  all  started;  and  Father  Felician,  astounded, 
Suddenly  paused,  with  a  pinch  of  snuff  half-way  to  his  nostrils. 
But  the  brave  Basil  resumed,  and  his  words  were  milder  and  gayer: 
'Only  beware  of  the  fever,  my  friends,  beware  of  the  fever! 
For  it  is  not  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian  climate,  340 

Cured  by  wearing  a  spider  hung  round  one's  neck  in  a  nutshell!" 
Then  there  were  voices  heard  at  the  door,  and  footsteps  approaching 
Sounded  upon  the  stairs  and  the  floor  of  the  breezy  veranda: 
It  was  the  neighboring  Creoles  and  small  Acadian  planters, 
Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  house  of  Basil  the  herdsman.        345 
Merry  the  meeting  was  of  ancient  comrades  and  neighbors: 
Friend  clasped  friend  in  his  arms;    and  they  who  before  were  as 

strangers, 

Meeting  in  exile,  became  straightway  as  friends  to  each  other, 
Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a  common  country  together. 
But  in  the  neighboring  hall  a  strain  of  music,  proceeding  350 

From  the  accordant  strings  of  Michael's  melodious  fiddle, 
Broke  up  all  further  speech:  away,  like  children  delighted, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  273 

All  things  forgotten  beside,  they  gave  themselves  to  the  maddening 
Whirl  of  the  dizzy  dance,  as  it  swept  and  swayed  to  the  music, 
Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes  and  the  rush  of  fluttering  garments.     355 
Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  the  priest  and  the 

herdsman 

Sat,  conversing  together  of  past  and  present  and  future; 
While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced,  for  within  her 
Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst  of  the  music 
Heard  she  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  an  irrepressible  sadness  360 

Came  o'er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole  forth  into  the  garden. 
Beautiful  was  the  night:  behind  the  black  wall  of  the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon;  on  the  river 
Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  tremulous  gleam  of  the 

moonlight, 

Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened  and  devious  spirit;       365 
Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold  flowers  of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their  prayers  and  con 
fessions 

Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way  like  a  silent  Carthusian. 
Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with  shadows  and  night- 
dews, 

Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.    The  calm  and  the  magical  moon 
light  370 
Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable  longings, 
As,  through  the  garden  gate,  and  beneath  the  shade  of  the  oak-trees, 
Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the  measureless  prairie. 
Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it,  and  fire-flies 
Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  infinite  numbers.  375 
Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in  the  heavens, 
Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to  marvel  and  worship, 
Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls  of  that  temple, 
As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them,  "Upharsin." 
And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars  and  the  fire-flies,          380 
Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  "O  Gabriel!  O  my  beloved! 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot  behold  thee  ? 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does  not  reach  me  ? 
Ah,  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to  the  prairie! 
Ah,  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the  woodlands  around 

me!  3»5 

Ah,  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from  labor, 
Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest  and  to  dream  of  me  in  thy  slumbers! 


274  AMERICAN  POEMS 


When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms  be  folded  about  thee  ?" 
Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a  whippoorwill  sounded 
Like  a  flute  in  the  woods;    and  anon,  through  the  neighboring 

thickets,  390 

Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped  into  silence. 

•'Patience!"  whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular  caverns  of  darkness; 
And  from  the  moonlit  meadow  a  sigh  responded,  "To-morrow!" 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day;  and  all  the  flowers  of  the  garden 
Bathed  his  shining  feet  with  their  tears,  and  anointed  his  tresses         395 
With  the  delicious  balm  that  they  bore  in  their  vases  of  crystal. 

"Farewell!"  said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at  the  shadowy  threshold; 

"See  that  you  bring  us  the  Prodigal  Son  from  his  fasting  and  famine, 
And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when  the  bridegroom  was 
coming." 

"Farewell!"  answered  the  maiden,  and,  smiling,  with  Basil  descended       400 
Down  to  the  river's  brink,  where  the  boatmen  already  were  waiting. 
Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morning  and  sunshine  and 

gladness, 

Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who  was  speeding  before  them, 
Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a  dead  leaf  over  the  desert. 
Not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  day  that  succeeded,  405 

Found  they  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake  or  forest  or  river, 
Nor  after  many  days  had  they  found  him;  but  vague  and  uncertain 
Rumors  alone  were  their  guides  through  a  wild  and  desolate  country, 
Till  at  the  little  inn  of  the  "Spanish  town  of  Adayes, 
Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned  from  the  garrulous 

landlord  41° 

That  on  the  day  before,  with  horses  and  guides  and  companions, 
Gabriel  left  the  village  and  took  the  road  of  the  prairies. 


IV 

Far  in  the  West  there  lies  a  desert  land,  where  the  mountains 
Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty  and  luminous  summits. 
Down  from  their  jagged,  deep  ravines,  where  the  gorge,  like  a 

gateway,  415 

Opens  a  passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the  emigrant's  wagon, 
Westward  the  Oregon  flows,  and  the  Walleway  and  Owyhee. 
Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the  Wind-river  Mountains, 
Through  the  Sweet- water  Valley  precipitate  leaps  the  Nebraska; 
And  to  the  south,  from  Fontaine-qui-bout  and  the  Spanish  sierras,       420 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  275 

Fretted  with  sands  and  rocks,  and  swept  by  the  wind  of  the  desert, 

Numberless  torrents  with  ceaseless  sound  descend  to  the  ocean 

Like  the  great  chords  of  a  harp,  in  loud  and  solemn  vibrations. 

Spreading  between  these  streams  are  the  wondrous,  beautiful  prairies, 

Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and  sunshine,  425 

Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  purple  amorphas. 

Over  them  wandered  the  buffalo  herds  and  the  elk  and  the  roebuck; 

Over  them  wandered  the  wolves  and  herds  of  riderless  horses; 

Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are  weary  with  travel; 

Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ishmael's  children,  430 

Staining  the  desert  with  blood;  and  above  their  terrible  war-trails 

Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the  vulture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a  chieftain  slaughtered  in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the  heavens. 

Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps  of  these  savage 

marauders;  435 

Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  margins  of  swift-running  rivers; 
And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite  monk  of  the  desert, 
Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for  roots  by  the  brookside; 
And  over  all  is  the  sky,  the  clear  and  crystalline  heaven, 
Like  the  protecting  hand  of  God  inverted  above  them.  440 

Into  this  wonderful  land,  at  the  base  of  the  Ozark  Mountains, 
Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and  trappers  behind  him. 
Day  after  day,  with  their  Indian  guides,  the  maiden  and  Basil 
Followed  his  flying  steps,  and  thought  each  day  to  o'ertake  him. 
Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  the  smoke  of  his  camp- 
fire  445 
Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant  plain;  but  at  nightfall, 
When  they  had  reached  the  place,  they  found  only  embers  and  ashes. 
And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times  and  their  bodies  were 

weary, 

Hope  still  guided  them  on,  as  the  magic  Fata  Morgana 
Showed  them  her  lakes  of  light,  that  retreated  and  vanished  before 

them.  450 

Once,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire,  there  silently  entered 
Into  the  little  camp  an  Indian  woman,  whose  features 
Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow  and  patience  as  great  as  her  sorrow. 
She  was  a  Shawnee  woman  returning  home  to  her  people, 
From  the  far-off  hunting-grounds  of  the  cruel  Camanches,  455 

Where  her  Canadian  husband,  a  Coureur-des-Bois,  had  been  mur 
dered. 


276  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Touched  were  their  hearts  at  her  story,  and  warmest  and  friendliest 

welcome 

Gave  they,  with  words  of  cheer;  and  she  sat  and  feasted  among  them 
On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked  on  the  embers. 
But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil  and  all  his  companions,        460 
Worn  with  the  long  day's  march  and  the  chase  of  the  deer  and  the 

bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  slept  where  the  quivering 

firelight 
Flashed  on  their  swarthy  cheeks  and  their  forms  wrapped  up  in  their 

blankets, 

Then  at  the  door  of  Evangeline's  tent  she  sat  and  repeated 
Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice  and  the  charm  of  her  Indian  accent,         465 
All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures  and  pains  and  reverses. 
Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to  know  that  another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and  had  been  disappointed. 
Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity  and  woman's  compassion, 
Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that  one  who  had  suffered  was  near  her,         470 
She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  disasters. 
Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and  when  she  had  ended 
Still  was  mute;  but  at  length,  as  if  a  mysterious  horror 
Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and  repeated  the  tale  of  the 

Mowis — 

Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  won  and  wedded  a  maiden,        475 
But,  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and  passed  from  the  wigwam, 
Fading  and  melting  away  and  dissolving  into  the  sunshine, 
Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she  followed  far  into  the  forest. 
Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed  like  a  weird  incantation, 
Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who  was  wooed  by  a  phantom,     480 
That,  through  the  pines  o'er  her  father's  lodge,  in  the  hush  of  the 

twilight, 

Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whispered  love  to  the  maiden, 
Till  she  followed  his  green  and  waving  plume  through  the  forest, 
And  never  more  returned  nor  was  seen  again  by  her  people. 
Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise,  Evangeline  listened  485 

To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till  the  region  around  her 
Seemed   like  enchanted  ground,  and  her  swarthy  guest  the  en 
chantress. 

Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Mountains  the  moon  rose, 
Lighting  the  little  tent,  and  with  a  mysterious  splendor 
Touching  the  sombre  leaves  and  embracing  and  filling  the  woodland.     490 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  277 

With  a  delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed  by,  and  the  branches 

Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely  audible  whispers. 

Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evangeline's  heart,  but  a  secret, 

Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite  terror, 

As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the  nest  of  the  swallow.         495 

It  was  no  earthly  fear:  a  breath  from  the  region  of  spirits 

Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night;  and  she  felt  for  a  moment 

That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she  too  was  pursuing  a  phantom. 

With  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear  and  the  phantom  had 

vanished. 
Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  was  resumed;    and  the 

Shawnee  500 

Said,  as  they  journeyed  along,  "On  the  western  slope  of  these 

mountains 

Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe  chief  of  the  Mission. 
Much  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them  of  Mary  and  Jesus: 
Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep  with  pain,  as  they  hear 

him." 

Then,  with  a  sudden  and  secret  emotion,  Evangeline  answered,  505 

"Let  us  go  to  the  Mission,  for  there  good  tidings  await  us!" 
Thither  they  turned  their  steeds;  and  behind  a  spur  of  the  mountains, 
Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a  murmur  of  voices, 
And  in  a  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the  bank  of  a  river, 
Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents  of  the  Jesuit  Mission.  510 

Under  a  towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  village, 
Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  his  children.     A  crucifix  fastened 
High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  overshadowed  by  grape-vines, 
Looked  with  its  agonized  face  on  the  multitude  kneeling  beneath  it. 
This  was  their  rural  chapel :  aloft,  through  the  intricate  arches  515 

Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their  vespers, 
Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus  and  sighs  of  the  branches. 
Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers,  nearer  approaching, 
Knelt  on  the  swarded  floor  and  joined  in  the  evening  devotions. 
But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the  benediction  had  fallen  520 

Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like  seed  from  the  hands  of  the 

sower, 

Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the  strangers,  and  bade  them 
Welcome;     and   when   they   replied,   he   smiled   with   benignant 

expression, 

Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother-tongue  in  the  forest, 
And  with  words  of  kindness  conducted  them  into  his  wigwam.  525 


278  AMERICAN  POEMS 

There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed,  and  on  cakes  of  the 

maize-ear 

Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the  water-gourd  of  the  teacher. 
Soon  was  their  story  told;  and  the  priest  with  solemnity  answered, 
"Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Gabriel,  seated 
On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the  maiden  reposes,  530 

Told  me  this  same  sad  tale;  then  arose  and  continued  his  journey!" 
Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he  spake  with  an  accent  of 

kindness; 

But  on  Evangeline's  heart  fell  his  words  as  in  winter  the  snowflakes 
Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the  birds  have  departed. 
•'Far  to  the  north  he  has  gone,"  continued  the  priest;    "but  in 

autumn,  535 

When  the  chase  is  done,  will  return  again  to  the  Mission." 
Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was  meek  and  submissive, 
"  Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is  sad  and  afflicted." 
So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all;  and  betimes  on  the  morrow, 
Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  Indian  guides  and  compan 
ions  540 
Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline  stayed  at  the  Mission. 

Slowly,  slowly,  slowly  the  days  succeeded  each  other- 
Days  and  weeks  and  months;    and  the  fields  of  maize  that  were 

springing 
Green  from  the  ground  when  a  stranger  she  came,  now  waving 

above  her, 

Lifted  their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves  interlacing  and  forming  545 

Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries  pillaged  by  squirrels. 
Then  in  the  golden  weather  the  maize  was  husked;  and  the  maidens 
Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  betokened  a  lover, 
But  at  the  crooked  laughed,  and  called  it  a  thief  in  the  corn-field. 
Even  the  blood-red  ear  to  Evangeline  brought  not  her  lover.  550 

"Patience!"  the  priest  would  say;   "have  faith,  and  thy  prayer  will 

be  answered! 

Look  at  this  delicate  plant  that  lifts  its  head  from  the  meadow; 
See  how  its  leaves  are  turned  to  the  north,  as  true  as  the  magnet: 
This  is  the  compass-flower,  that  the  finger  of  God  has  planted 
Here  in  the  houseless  wild,  to  direct  the  traveller's  journey  555 

Over  the  sea-like,  pathless,  limitless  waste  of  the  desert. 
Such  in  the  soul  of  man  is  faith.     The  blossoms  of  passion, 
Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and  fuller  of  fragrance, 
Bu*  they  beguile  us  and  lead  us  astray,  and  their  odor  is  deadly. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  279 

Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here,  and  hereafter  560 

Crown  us  with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are  wet  with  the  dews  of 

nepenthe." 
So  came  the  autumn,  and  passed,  and  the  winter;  yet  Gabriel 

came  not. 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes  of  the  robin  and 

blue-bird 

Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  in  wood;  yet  Gabriel  came  not. 
But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer  winds  a  rumor  was  wafted,  565 

Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,  or  hue  or  odor  of  blossom: 
Far  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the  Michigan  forests, 
Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of  the  Saginaw  River. 
And,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the  lakes  of  St.  Lawrence, 
Saying  a  sad  farewell,  Evangeline  went  from  the  Mission.  570 

When  over  weary  ways,  by  long  and  perilous  marches, 
She  had  attained  at  length  the  depths  of  the  Michigan  forests, 
Found  she  the  hunter's  lodge  deserted  and  fallen  to  ruin! 

Thus  did  the  long  sad  years  glide  on,  and  in  seasons  and  places 
Divers -and  distant  far  was  seen  the  wandering  maiden:  575 

Now  in  the  Tents  of  Grace  of  the  meek  Moravian  Missions, 
Now  in  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields  of  the  army, 
Now  in  secluded  hamlets,  in  towns  and  populous  cities. 
Like  a  phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away  unremembered. 
Fair  was  she  and  young,  when  in  hope  began  the  long  journey;  580 

Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappointment  it  ended. 
Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away  from  her  beauty, 
Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the  gloom  and  the  shadow. 
Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint  streaks  of  gray  o'er  her 

forehead, 

Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o'er  her  earthly  horizon,  585 

As  in  the  eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks  of  the  morning. 


In  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by  the  Delaware's  waters, 

Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the  apostle, 

Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the  city  he  founded. 

There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is  the  emblem  of  beauty;        500 

And  the  streets  still  re-echo  the  names  of  the  trees  of  the  forest, 

As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads  whose  haunts  they 

molested. 
There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evangeline  landed,  an  exile, 


28o  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Finding  among  the  children  of  Perm  a  home  and  a  country. 

There  old  Ren6  Leblanc  had  died;  and  when  he  departed,  .      595 

Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred  descendants. 

Something  at  least  there  was  in  the  friendly  streets  of  the  city, 

Something  that  spake  to  her  heart  and  made  her  no  longer  a  stranger; 

And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  "  Thee  "  and  "  Thou  "  of  the  Quakers, 

For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  country,  600 

Where  all  men  were  equal  and  all  were  brothers  and  sisters. 

So,  when  the  fruitless  search,  the  disappointed  endeavor, 

Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth,  uncomplaining, 

Thither,  as  leaves  to  the  light,  were  turned  her  thoughts  and  her 

footsteps. 

As  from  a  mountain's  top  the  rainy  mists  of  the  morning  605 

Roll  away,  and  afar  we  behold  the  landscape  below  us, 
Sun-illumined,  with  shining  rivers  and  cities  and  hamlets, 
So  fell  the  mists  from  her  mind,  and  she  saw  the  world  far  below  her, 
Dark  no  longer  but  all  illumined  with  love,  and  the  pathway 
Which  she  had  climbed  so  far  lying  smooth  and  fair  in  the  distance.       610 
Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.     Within  her  heart  was  his  image, 
Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  love  and  youth,  as  last  she  beheld  him, 
Only  more  beautiful  made  by  his  deathlike  silence  and  absence: 
Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not,  for  it  was  not; 
Over  him  years  had  no  power;  he  was  not  changed  but  transfigured ;     615 
He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is  dead  and  not  absent. 
Patience  and  abnegation  of  self  and  devotion  to  others, 
This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had  taught  her. 
So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some  odorous  spices, 
Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss  though  filling  the  air  with  aroma.  620 

Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life,  but  to  follow 
Meekly,  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred  feet  of  her  Saviour. 
Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  frequenting 
Lonely  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  crowded  lanes  of  the  city, 
Where  distress  and  want  concealed  themselves  from  the  sunlight,        625 
Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  languished  neglected. 
Night  after  night,  when  the  world  was  asleep,  as  the  watchman 

repeated 

Loud,  through  the  gusty  streets,  that  all  was  well  in  the  city, 
High  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the  light  of  her  taper. 
Day  after  day,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  slow  through  the  suburbs     630 
Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers  and  fruits  for  the  market, 
Met  he  that  meek,  pale  face,  returning  home  from  its  watchings. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  281 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a  pestilence  fell  on  the  city, 
Presaged  by  wondrous  signs,  and  mostly  by  flocks  of  wild  pigeons 
Darkening  the  sun  in  their  flight,  with  naught  in  their  craws  but  an 

acorn.  635 

And,  as  the  tides  of  the  sea  arise  in  the  month  of  September, 
Flooding  some  silver  stream  till  it  spreads  to  a  lake  in  the  meadow, 
So  death  flooded  life,  and,  o'erflowing  its  natural  margin, 
Spread  to  a  brackish  lake  the  silver  stream  of  existence. 
Wealth  had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty  to  charm,  the  oppressor,      640 
But  all  perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge  of  his  anger; 
Only,  alas,  the  poor,  who  had  neither  friends  nor  attendants, 
Crept  away  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home  of  the  homeless. 
Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  midst  of  meadows  and  wood 
lands; 

Now  the  city  surrounds  it;  but  still,  with  its  gateway  and  wicket        645 
Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  its  humble  walls  seem  to  echo 
Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord,  "The  poor  ye  always  have  with  you." 
Thither,  by  night  and  by  day,  came  the  Sister  of  Mercy.    The  dying 
Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  indeed,  to  behold  there 
Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle  her  forehead  with  splendor,  650 

Such  as  the  artist  paints  o'er  the  brows  of  saints  and  apostles, 
Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o'er  a  city  seen  at  a  distance: 
Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the  city  celestial, 
Into  whose  shining  gates  ere  long  their  spirits  would  enter. 

Thus,  on  a  Sabbath  morn,  through  the  streets  deserted  and 

silent,  655 

Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the  door  of  the  almshouse. 
Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of  flowers  in  the  garden; 
And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the  fairest  among  them, 
That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in  their  fragrance  and 

beauty. 
Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  corridors,  cooled  by  the  east 

wind,  o6° 

Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes  from  the  belfry  of  Christ 

Church, 

While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the  meadows  were  wafted 
Sounds  of  psalms  that  were  sung  by  the  Swedes  in  their  church  at 

Wicaco. 

Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of  the  hour  on  her  spirit; 
Something  within  her  said,  "At  length  thy  trials  are  ended";  665 

And  with  light  in  her  looks  she  entered  the  chambers  of  sickness. 


282  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Noiselessly  moved  about  the  assiduous,  careful  attendants, 

Moistening  the  feverish  lip  and  the  aching  brow,  and  in  silence 

Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and  concealing  their  faces, 

Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts  of  snow  by  the  roadside.       670 

Many  a  languid  head,  upraised  as  Evangeline  entered, 

Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while  she  passed,  for  her  presence 

Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a  ray  of  the  sun  on  the  walls  of  a  prison. 

And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death,  the  consoler, 

Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had  healed  it  forever.  675 

Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in  the  night-time; 

Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  already  by  strangers. 

Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a  feeling  of  wonder, 
Still  she  stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart,  while  a  shudder 
Ran  through  her  frame,  and  forgotten  the  flowerets  dropped  from 

her  fingers,  680 

And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and  bloom  of  the  morning. 
Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of  su~h  terrible  anguish 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their  pillows. 
On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form  of  an  old  man. 
Long  and  thin  and  gray  were  the  locks  that  shaded  his  temples;          685 
But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a  moment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its  earlier  manhood — 
So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who  are  dying. 
Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of  the  fever, 
As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  besprinkled  its  portals,       690 
That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign  and  pass  over. 
Motionless,  senseless,  dying,  he  lay,  and  his  spirit  exhausted 
Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite  depths  in  the  darkness, 
Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  forever  sinking  and  sinking. 
Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied  reverberations,       695 
Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain;  and  through  the  hush  that  succeeded 
Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and  saint-like, 
"Gabriel!  O  my  beloved!"  and  died  away  into  silence. 
Then  he  beheld,  in  a  dream,  once  more  the  home  of  his  childhood; 
Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan  rivers  among  them,  70x3 

Village  and  mountain  and  woodlands;    and,  walking  under  their 

shadow, 

As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  fts  vision. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes;  and,  as  slowly  he  lifted  his  eyelids, 
Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt  by  his  bedside. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the  accents  unuttered          705 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  283 

Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what  his  tongue  would 

have  spoken. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  rise;  and  Evangeline,  kneeling  beside  him, 
Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom. 
Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes;  but  it  suddenly  sank  into  darkness, 
As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of  wind  at  a  casement.  710 

All  was  ended  now,  the  hope  and  the  fear  and  the  sorrow, 
All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless,  unsatisfied  longing, 
All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  anguish  of  patience! 
And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head  to  her  bosom, 
Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,  and  murmured,  "Father,  I  thank 

thee!"  715 

Still  stands  the  forest  primeval;  but  far  away  from  its  shadow, 

Side  by  side  in  their  nameless  graves,  the  lovers  are  sleeping. 

Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Catholic  churchyard, 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie  unknown  and  unnoticed. 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flowing  beade  them:  720 

Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where  theirs  are  at  rest  and  forever; 

Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs  no  longer  are  busy; 

Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs  have  ceased  from  their 

labors; 

Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have  completed  their  journey! 
Still  stands  the  forest  primeval;    but  under  the  shade  of  its 

branches  725 

Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs  and  language. 
Only  along  the  shore  of  the  mournful  and  misty  Atlantic 
Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants  whose  fathers  from  exile 
Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die  in  its  bosom: 
In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the  loom  are  still  busy;  730 

Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and  their  kirtles  of  homespun, 
And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evangeline's  story, 
While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep-voiced,  neighboring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the  forest. 

1845-47-  1847- 

CHILDREN 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children! 

For  I  hear  you  at  your  play, 
And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 

Have  vanished  quite  away. 


284  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Ye  open  the  eastern  windows,  5 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sunshine, 

In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet's  flow;  10 

But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn, 
And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 

Ah,  what  would  the  world  be  to  us 

If  the  children  were  no  more  ? 
We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us  15 

Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  hardened  into  wood,  20 

That  to  the  world  are  children; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  brighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children!  25 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 

And  the  wisdom  of  our  books,  30 

When  compared  with  your  caresses 

And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said; 
For  ye  are  living  poems,  35 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 

1849.  1858. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  285 

FROM 

THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA 

in 
HIAWATHA'S  CHILDHOOD 

Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 

In  the  days  that  are  forgotten, 

In  the  unremembered  ages, 

From  the  full  moon  fell  Nokomis, 

Fell  the  beautiful  Nokomis,  5 

She  a  wife  but  not  a  mother. 

She  was  sporting  with  her  women, 

Swinging  in  a  swing  of  grape-vines, 

When  her  rival,  the  rejected, 

Full  of  jealousy  and  hatred,  10 

Cut  the  leafy  swing  asunder, 

Cut  in  twain  the  twisted  grape-vines; 

And  Nokomis  fell  affrighted 

Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 

On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow,  15 

On  the  prairie  full  of  blossoms. 
"See!  a  star  falls!"  said  the  people; 
"From  the  sky  a  star  is  falling!" 

There  among  the  ferns  and  mosses, 

There  among  the  prairie  lilies,  20 

On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 

In  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight, 

Fair  Nokomis  bore  a  daughter. 

And  she  called  her  name  Wenonah, 

As  the  first-born  of  her  daughters.  25 

And  the  daughter  of  Nokomis 

Grew  up  like  the  prairie  lilies, 

Grew  a  tall  and  slender  maiden, 

With  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight, 

With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight.  30 

And  Nokomis  warned  her  often, 

Saying  oft  and  oft  repeating, 
"O,  beware  of  Mudjekeewis, 

Of  the  West-Wind,  Mudjekeewis; 

Listen  not  to  what  he  tells  you;  35 

Lie  not  down  upon  the  meadow, 


286  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Stoop  not  down  among  the  lilies, 

Lest  the  West-Wind  come  and  harm  youl" 

But  she  heeded  not  the  warning, 

Heeded  not  those  words  of  wisdom;  40 

And  the  West- Wind  came  at  evening, 

Walking  lightly  o'er  the  prairie, 

Whispering  to  the  leaves  and  blossoms, 

Bending  low  the  flowers  and  grasses, 

Found  the  beautiful  Wenonah,  45 

Lying  there  among  the  lilies, 

Wooed  her  with  his  words  of  sweetness, 

Wooed  her  with  his  soft  caresses, 

Till  she  bore  a  son  in  sorrow, 

Bore  a  son  of  love  and  sorrow.  50 

Thus  was  born  my  Hiawatha, 
Thus  was  born  the  child  of  wonder; 
But  the  daughter  of  Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's  gentle  mother, 

In  her  anguish  died  deserted  55 

By  the  West-Wind,  false  and  faithless, 
By  the  heartless  Mudjekeewis. 

For  her  daughter,  long  and  loudly 
Wailed  and  wept  the  sad  Nokomis: 
[O  that  I  were  dead!"  she  murmured;  60 

'0  that  I  were  dead,  as  thou  art! 
No  more  work,  and  no  more  weeping, 
Wahonowin!     Wahonowin!" 

By  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 

By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water,  65 

Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 
Dark  behind  it  rose  the  forest, 
Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-trees, 
Rose  the  firs  with  cones  upon  them;  70 

Bright  before  it  beat  the  water, 
Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 
Beat  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water. 

There  the  wrinkled,  old  Nokomis 
Nursed  the  little  Hiawatha;  7$ 

Rocked  him  in  his  linden  cradle, 
Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  287 

Safely  bound  with  reindeer  sinews; 

Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  saying, 
"Hush!  the  Naked  Bear  will  hear  theel"  80 

Lulled  him  into  slumber,  singing, 
"Ewa-yea!  my  little  owlet! 

Who  is  this,  that  lights  the  wigwam? 

With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam? 

Ewa-yea!  my  little  owlet!"  85 

Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 

Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven; 

Showed  him  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 

Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresses; 

Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits,  90 

Warriors  with  their  plumes  and  war-clubs, 

Flaring  far  away  to  northward 

In  the  frosty  nights  of  Winter; 

Showed  the  broad,  white  road  in  heaven, 

Pathway  of  the  ghosts,  the  shadows,  95 

Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 

Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  the  shadows. 
At  the  door  on  summer  evenings 

Sat  the  little  Hiawatha; 

Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-trees,  100 

Heard  the  lapping  of  the  water, 

Sounds  of  music,  words  of  wonder: 
"Minne-wawa!"  said  the  pine-trees; 
"Mudway-aushka!"  said  the  water. 

Saw  the  fire-fly,  Wah-wah-taysee,  105 

Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening, 

With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 

Lighting  up  the  brakes  and  bushes; 

And  he  sang  the  song  of  children, 

Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him:  no 

"Wah-wah-taysee,  little  firefly, 

Little,  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 

Little,  dancing,  white-fire  creature, 

Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 

Ere  upon  my  bed  I  lay  me,  uj 

Ere  in  sleep  I  close  my  eyelids!" 

Saw  the  moon  rise  from  the  water, 

Rippling,  rounding  from  the  water, 


288  AMERICAN  POEMS 

Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 

Whispered,  "What  is  that  Nokomis?"  120 

And  the  good  Nokomis  answered: 
"Once  a  warrior,  very  angry, 

Seized  his  grandmother  and  threw  her 

Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight, 

Right  against  the  moon  he  threw  her;  125 

'T  is  her  body  that  you  see  there." 
Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 

In  the  eastern  sky  the  rainbow; 

Whispered,  "What  is  that  Nokomis?" 

And  the  good  Nokomis  answered:  130 

"'T  is  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see  there; 

All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 

All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 

When  on  earth  they  fade  and  perish, 

Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us."  135 

When  he  heard  the  owls  at  midnight, 

Hooting,  laughing  in  the  forest, 
"What  is  that?"  he  cried  in  terror; 
"What  is  that?"  he  said,  "Nokomis?" 

And  the  good  Nokomis  answered:  140 

"That  is  but  the  owl  and  owlet 

Talking  in  their  native  language, 

Talking,  scolding  at  each  other." 
Then  the  little  Hiawatha, 

Learned  of  every  bird  its  language,  145 

Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets 

How  they  built  their  nests  in  Summer, 

Where  they  hid  themselves  in  Winter; 

Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 

Called  them  "Hiawatha's  Chickens."  150 

Of  all  beasts  he  learned  the  language, 

Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 

How  the  beavers  built  their  lodges, 

Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 

How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly,  155 

Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid; 

Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 

Called  them  "Hiawatha's  Brothers." 
Then  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  26g 

He  the  marvellous  story-teller,  160 

He  the  traveller  and  the  talker, 

He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 

Made  a  bow  for  Hiawatha; 

From  a  branch  of  ash  he  made  it, 

From  an  oak-bough  made  the  arrows,  165 

Tipped  with  flint  and  winged  with  feathers, 

And  the  cord  he  made  of  deer-skin. 

Then  he  said  to  Hiawatha: 
"Go,  my  son,  into  the  forest, 

Where  the  red  deer  herd  together;  170 

Kill  for  us  a  famous  roebuck, 

Kill  for  us  a  deer  with  antlers  1" 

Forth  into  the  forest  straightway 

All  alone  walked  Hiawatha 

Proudly,  with  his  bow  and  arrows;  175 

And  the  birds  sang  round  him,  o'er  him, 
"Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  1" 

Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 

Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
"Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  1"  180 

Up  the  oak-tree,  close  beside  him, 

Sprang  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

In  and  out  among  the  branches, 

Coughed  and  chattered  from  the  oak-tree, 

Laughed,  and  said  between  his  laughing,  185 

"Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  1" 

And  the  rabbit  from  his  pathway 

Leaped  aside,  and  at  a  distance 

Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 

Half  in  fear  and  half  in  frolic,  190 

Saying  to  the  little  hunter, 
"Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha!" 

But  he  heeded  not  nor  heard  them, 

For  his  thoughts  were  with  the  red  deer; 

On  their  tracks  his  eyes  were  fastened,  195 

Leading  downward  to  the  river, 

To  the  ford  across  the  river, 

And  as  one  in  slumber  walked  he. 
Hidden  in  the  alder  bushes, 

There  he  waited  till  the  deer  came,  200 


29o  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Till  he  saw  two  antlers  lifted, 

Saw  two  eyes  look  from  the  thicket, 

Saw  two  nostrils  point  to  windward, 

And  a  deer  came  down  the  pathway, 

Flecked  with  leafy  light  and  shadow.  205 

And  his  heart  within  him  fluttered, 

Trembled  like  the  leaves  above  him, 

Like  the  birch-leaf  palpitated, 

As  the  deer  came  down  the  pathway. 

Then,  upon  one  knee  uprising,  210 

Hiawatha  aimed  an  arrow; 
Scarce  a  twig  moved  with  his  motion, 
Scarce  a  leaf  was  stirred  or  rustled, 
But  the  wary  roebuck  started, 

Stamped  with  all  his  hoofs  together,  215 

Listened  with  one  foot  uplifted, 
Leaped  as  if  to  meet  the  arrow; 
Ah,  the  singing,  fatal  arrow, 
Like  a  wasp  it  buzzed  and  stung  him! 

Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  forest,  220 

By  the  ford  across  the  river; 
Beat  his  timid  heart  no  longer. 
But  the  heart  of  Hiawatha 
Throbbed  and  shouted  and  exulted, 
As  he  bore  the  red  deer  homeward;  225 

And  lagoo  and  Nokomis 
Hailed  his  coming  with  applauses. 

From  the  red  deer's  hide  Nokomis 
Made  a  cloak  for  Hiawatha; 

From  the  red  deer's  flesh  Nokomis  230 

Made  a  banquet  in  his  honor. 
All  the  village  came  and  feasted, 
All  the  guests  praised  Hiawatha, 
Called  him  Strong-Heart,  Soan-ge-taha! 
Called  him  Loon-Heart,  Mahn-go-tayseel  235 

vin 

HIAWATHA'S  FISHING 
Forth  upon  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
On  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  291 

Of  the  twisted  bark  of  cedar, 

Forth  to  catch  the  sturgeon,  Nahma,  5 

Mishe-Nahma,  King  of  Fishes, 

In  his  birch  canoe  exulting 

All  alone  went  Hiawatha. 

Through  the  clear,  transparent  water 
He  could  see  the  fishes  swimming  10 

Far  down  in  the  depths  below  him; 
See  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 
See  the  Shawgashee,  the  crawfish, 
Like  a  spider  on  the  bottom,  15 

On  the  white  and  sandy  bottom. 

At  the  stern  sat  Hiawatha, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar; 
In  his  plumes  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  hemlock  branches.  20 

On  the  bows,  with  tail  erected, 
Sat  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo; 
In  his  fur  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  prairie  grasses. 

On  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom  25 

Lay  the  monster  Mishe-Nahma, 
Lay  the  sturgeon,  King  of  Fishes; 
Through  his  gills  he  breathed  the  water, 
With  his  fins  he  fanned  and  winnowed, 
With  his  tail  he  swept  the  sand-floor.  30 

There  he  lay  in  all  his  armor; 
On  each  side  a  shield  to  guard  him, 
Plates  of  bone  upon  his  forehead, 
Down  his  sides  and  back  and  shoulders 
Plates  of  bone  with  spines  projecting!  35 

Painted  was  he  with  his  war-paints, 
Stripes  of  yellow,  red,  and  azure, 
Spots  of  brown  and  spots  of  sable. 
And  he  lay  there  on  the  bottom, 

Fanning  with  his  fins  of  purple,  40 

As  above  him  Hiawatha 
In  his  birch  canoe  came  sailing, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar. 
"Take  my  bait,"  cried  Hiawatha. 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Down  into  the  depths  beneath  him;  45 

"Take  my  bait,  O  Sturgeon,  Nahma! 

Come  up  from  below  the  water, 

Let  us  see  which  is  the  stronger!" 

And  he  dropped  his  line  of  cedar 

Through  the  clear,  transparent  water,  50 

Waited  vainly  for  an  answer, 

Long  sat  waiting  for  an  answer, 

And  repeating  loud  and  louder, 
"Take  my  bait,  O  King  of  Fishes!" 

Quiet  lay  the  sturgeon,  Nahma,  55 

Fanning  slowly  in  the  water, 

Looking  up  at  Hiawatha, 

Listening  to  his  call  and  clamor, 

His  unnecessary  tumult, 

Till  he  wearied  of  the  shouting;  60 

And  he  said  to  the  Kenozha, 

To  the  pike  the  Maskenozha, 
"Take  the  bait  of  this  rude  fellow, 

Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha!" 

In  his  fingers  Hiawatha  65 

Felt  the  loose  line  jerk  and  tighten; 

As  he  drew  it  in,  it  tugged  so 

That  the  birch  canoe  stood  endwise, 

Like  a  birch  log  in  the  water, 

With  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo,  7° 

Perched  and  frisking  on  the  summit. 

Full  of  scorn  was  Hiawatha 

When  he  saw  the  fish  rise  upward, 

Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 

Coming  nearer,  nearer  to  him;  75 

And  he  shouted  through  the  water, 
"Esa!  esa!  shame  upon  you! 

You  are  but  the  pike,  Kenozha, 

You  are  not  the  fish  I  wanted. 

You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes!"  80 

Reeling  downward  to  the  bottom, 

Sank  the  pike  in  great  confusion, 

And  the  mighty  sturgeon,  Nahma, 

Said  to  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 

To  the  bream  with  scales  of  crimson,  85 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  293 

"Take  the  bait  of  this  great  boaster, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha!" 

Slowly  upward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Rose  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
Seized  the  line  of  Hiawatha,  90 

Swung  with  all  his  weight  upon  it, 
Made  a  whirlpool  in  the  water, 
Whirled  the  birch  canoe  in  circles, 
Round  and  round  in  gurgling  eddies, 
Till  the  circles  in  the  water  95 

Reached  the  far-off  sandy  beaches, 
Till  the  water-flags  and  rushes 
Nodded  on  the  distant  margins. 
But  when  Hiawatha  saw  him 

Slowly  rising  through  the  water,  100 

Lifting  up  his  disk  refulgent, 
Loud  he  shouted  in  derision, 
"Esa!  esa!  shame  upon  you! 
You  are  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 

You  are  not  the  fish  I  wanted,  105 

You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes!" 
Slowly  downward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Sank  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish; 
And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Heard  the  shout  of  Hiawatha,  no 

Heard  his  challenge  of  defiance, 
The  unnecessary  tumult, 
Ringing  far  across  the  water. 

From  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Up  he  rose  with  angry  gesture,  115 

Quivering  in  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Clashing  all  his  plates  of  armor, 
Gleaming  bright  with  all  his  war-paint; 
In  his  wrath  he  darted  upward, 

Flashing  leaped  into  the  sunshine,  120 

Opened  his  great  jaws,  and  swallowed 
Both  canoe  and  Hiawatha. 

Down  into  that  darksome  cavern 
Plunged  the  headlong  Hiawatha, 
As  a  log  on  some  black  river  125 

Shoots  and  plwuees  down  the  rapids: 


294  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Found  himself  in  utter  darkness, 

Groped  about  in  helpless  wonder, 

Till  he  felt  a  great  heart  beating, 

Throbbing  in  that  utter  darkness.  130 

And  he  smote  it  in  his  anger, 

With  his  fist,  the  heart  of  Nahma, 

Felt  the  mighty  King  of  Fishes 

Shudder  through  each  nerve  and  fibre, 

Heard  the  water  gurgle  round  him  135 

As  he  leaped  and  staggered  through  it, 

Sick  at  heart,  and  faint  and  weary. 

Crosswise  then  did  Hiawatha 
Drag  his  birch-canoe  for  safety, 

Lest  from  out  the  jaws  of  Nahma,  140 

In  the  turmoil  and  confusion, 
Forth  he  might  be  hurled  and  perish. 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Frisked  and  chattered  very  gayly, 
Toiled  and  tugged  with  Hiawatha  145 

Till  the  labor  was  completed. 
Then  said  Hiawatha  to  him, 
"O  my  little  friend,  the  squirrel, 
Bravely  have  you  toiled  to  help  me; 
Take  the  thanks  of  Hiawatha,  150 

And  the  name  which  now  he  gives  you, 
For  hereafter  and  forever 
Boys  shall  call  you  Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air  the  boys  shall  call  you!" 

And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma,  155 

Gasped  and  quivered  in  the  water, 
Then  was  still,  and  drifted  landward 
Till  he  grated  on  the  pebbles, 
Till  the  listening  Hiawatha 

Heard  him  grate  upon  the  margin,  160 

Felt  him  strand  upon  the  pebbles, 
Knew  that  Nahma,  King  of  Fishes, 
Lay  there  dead  upon  the  margin. 

Then  he  heard  a  clang  and  flapping, 
As  of  many  wings  assembling,  165 

Heard  a  screaming  and  confusion, 
As  of  birds  of  prey  contending, 


HENRY  WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW  295 

Saw  a  gleam  of  light  above  him, 

Shining  through  the  ribs  of  Nahma, 

Saw  the  glittering  eyes  of  sea-gulls,  170 

Of  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls,  peering, 

Gazing  at  him  through  the  opening, 

Heard  them  saying  to  each  other, 
"'T  is  our  brother,  Hiawatha!" 

And  he  shouted  from  below  them,  175 

Cried  exulting  from  the  caverns: 
"O  ye  sea-gulls!    O  my  brothers! 

I  have  slain  the  sturgeon,  Nahma; 

Make  the  rifts  a  little  larger, 

With  your  claws  the  openings  widen,  180 

Set  me  free  from  this  dark  prison, 

And  henceforward  and  forever 

Men  shall  speak  of  your  achievements, 

Calling  you  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls, 

Yes,  Kayoshk,  the  Noble  Scratches!"  185 

And  the  wild  and  clamorous  sea-gulls 

Toiled  with  beak  and  claws  together, 

Made  the  rifts  and  openings  wider 

In  the  mighty  ribs  of  Nahma; 

And  from  peril  and  from  prison,  JQQ 

From  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 

From  the  peril  of  the  water, 

They  released  my  Hiawatha. 

He  was  standing  near  his  wigwam, 
On  the  margin  of  the  water,  XgS 

And  he  called  to  old  Nokomis, 
Called  and  beckoned  to  Nokomis, 
Pointed  to  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Lying  lifeless  on  the  pebbles, 

With  the  sea-gulls  feeding  on  him.  2Oo 

"I  have  slain  the  Mishe-Nahma, 

Slain  the  King  of  Fishes!"  said  he; 
"Look!  the  sea-gulls  feed  upon  him, 
Yes,  my  friends  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls. 
Drive  them  not  away,  Nokomis,  205 

They  have  saved  me  from  great  peril 
In  the  body  of  the  sturgeon; 
Wait  until  their  meal  is  ended, 


2Q6  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Till  their  craws  are  full  with  feasting, 

Till  they  homeward  fly,  at  sunset,  210 

To  their  nests  among  the  marshes; 

Then  bring  all  your  pots  and  kettles, 

And  make  oil  for  us  in  Winter." 

And  she  waited  till  the  sun  set, 

Till  the  pallid  moon,  the  Night-sun,  215 

Rose  above  the  tranquil  water, 
Till  Kayoshk,  the  sated  sea-gulls, 
From  their  banquet  rose  with  clamor, 
And  across  the  fiery  sunset 

Winged  their  way  to  far-off  islands,  220 

To  their  nests  among  the  rushes. 
To  his  sleep  went  Hiawatha, 
And  Nokomis  to  her  labor, 
Toiling  patient  in  the  moonlight, 
Till  the  sun  and  moon  changed  places,  225 

Till  the  sky  was  red  with  sunrise, 
And  Kayoshk,  the  hungry  sea-gulls, 
Came  back  from  the  reedy  islands, 
Clamorous  for  their  morning  banquet. 

Three  whole  days  and  nights  alternate  230 

Old  Nokomis  and  the  sea-gulls 
Stripped  the  oily  flesh  of  Nahma, 
Till  the  waves  washed  through  the  rib-bones. 
Till  the  sea-gulls  came  no  longer, 

And  upon  the  sands  lay  nothing  235 

But  the  skeleton  of  Nahma. 


XX 

THE  FAMINE 

O  the  long  and  dreary  Winter  1 
O  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter! 
Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river; 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape, 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 
Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  297 

Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage;  10 

With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 

Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 

Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 

Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 

In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints;  15 

In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 

Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 

Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

O  the  famine  and  the  feverl 

O  the  wasting  of  the  famine!  20 

O  the  blasting  of  the  feverl 
O  the  wailing  of  the  children! 

0  the  anguish  of  the  women! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished; 

Hungry  was  the  air  around  them,  25 

Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 

And  the  hungry  stars  in  heaven 

Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them! 

Into  Hiawatha's  wigwam 

Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent  30 

As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy; 
Waited  not  to  be  invited, 
Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway, 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water;  35 

Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 
And  the  foremost  said,  "Behold  me! 

1  am  Famine,  Bukadawin!" 

And  the  other  said,  "Behold  mel  40 

I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin!" 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered, 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence,  45 

Hid  her  face  but  made  no  answer; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest  5C 


298  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha; 

In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 

In  his  face  a  stony  firmness; 

On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 

Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not.  55 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunting, 

With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 

With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 

With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest  60 

On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 
"Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty!" 

Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 

In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"  Give  your  children  food,  O  father!  65 

Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish! 

Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 

For  my  dying  Minnehaha!" 

Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 

Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant,  70 

Rang  that  cry  of  desolation. 

But  there  came  no  other  answer 

Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 

Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 

"Minnehaha!     Minnehaha!"  75 

All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 

In  that  melancholy  forest, 

Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets, 

In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 

Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  Summer,  80 

He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward 

From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 

And  the  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened 

And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance,  85 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 

Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 
"I  will  follow  you,  my  husband!" 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 

With  those  gloomy  guests,  that  watched  her,  90 

With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  299 

She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 

She  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

"Hark!"  she  said;  "I  hear  a  rushing, 

Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing,  95 

Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 

Calling  to  me  from  a  distance!" 
"No,  my  child!"  said  old  Nokomis, 
"T  is  the  night-wind  in  the  pine-trees!" 
"Look!"  she  said;  "I  see  my  father  100 

Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 

Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs!" 
"No,  my  child!"  said  old  Nokomis, 
"'T  is  the  smoke,  that  waves  and  beckons!"  105 

"Ah!"  she  said,  "the  eyes  of  Pauguk 

Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness; 

I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 

Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness! 

Hiawatha!     Hiawatha!"  no 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 

Far  away  amid  the  forest, 

Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 

Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 

Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha  115 

Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"Hiawatha!     Hiawatha!" 

Over  snowfields  waste  and  pathless, 

Under  snow-encumbered  branches, 

Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha,  120 

Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted; 

Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing: 
"  Wahonowin !     Wahonowin ! 

Would  that  I  had  perished  for  you, 

Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are!  125 

Wahonowin!     Wahonowin!" 

And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam, 

Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 

Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 

Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha  130 

Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him; 

And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 


3oo  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Uttered  such  a  cry  of  anguish 

That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered, 

That  the  very  stars  in  heaven  135 

Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless, 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 

At  those  willing  feet  that  never  140 

More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 
With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there,  145 

Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome,  150 

Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine; 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine; 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha.  155 

And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted, 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 

From  his  doorway  Hiawatha  160 

Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 
From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 

Stood  and  watched  it  at  the  doorway,  165 

That  it  might  not  be  extinguished, 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

"Farewell!"  said  he,  "Minnehaha!" 
Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  Water! 

All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you,  170 

All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you! 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 302 

Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 

Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body.  175 

Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 

Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 

To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 

To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter!"  180 

1854-55-  I85S- 


MY  LOST  YOUTH 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea, 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 

And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me.  5 

And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees,  10 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song,  15 

It  murmurs  and  whispers  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free,  20 

And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still:  25 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


302  AMERICAN  POEMS 


I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 

The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar,  30 

The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still: 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will,  35 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 

How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide! 

And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 

In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay,  40 

Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts."        45 


I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 

In  quiet  neighborhoods.  50 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart  55 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song  60 

Sings  on,  and  is  never  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  303 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die;  65 

There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill:  70 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town; 

But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet,  75 

And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
.    Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 

Are  sighing  and  whispering  still: 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will,  80 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair; 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 

And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were  85 

I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts."         QO 

1855- 
THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 

When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations 

That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me  5 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 


304  AMERICAN  POEMS 


From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 

Descending  the  broad  hall  stair,  10 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 

And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence: 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together  15 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall! 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded 

They  enter  my  castle  wall  I  20 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair: 
If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me; 

They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses,  25 

Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 
Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 

In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 

Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall,  30 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 

Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon  35 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin 

And  moulder  in  dust  away!  40 

1859.  1860. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  305 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five: 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year.  5 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light,— 
One  if  by  land,  and  two  if  by  sea;  10 

And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country-folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said,  "Good  night!"  and  with  muffled  oar         15 
Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar  20 

Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 

its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears,  25 

Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore.  30 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made  35 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade; 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 


3o6  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town,  4° 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 

Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread,  45 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "All  is  welll" 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread  50 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay — 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats  55 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side,  6 

Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church,  65 

As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo!  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer  and  then  a  gleam  of  light! 

He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns,  7° 

But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 
A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 
And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark  75 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet: 
That  was  all!  And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 
The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat.  80 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  307 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge,  85 

Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 
He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog,  90 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock  95 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 
And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 
Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon.  100 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 
He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze  105 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 
And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball.  no 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  have  read 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled; 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farmyard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane,  115 

Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm  1 20 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm — 


308  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past,  125 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere.  130 

1860.  TS6i. 

WEARINESS 

O  little  feet,  that  such  long  years 

Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 

Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load, 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin,  5 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road. 

O  little  hands,  that,  weak  or  strong, 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask, 

I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen  10 

Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

O  little  hearts,  that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires,  15 

Mine  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 

O  little  souls,  as  pure  and  white 

And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light  20 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  divine, 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears, 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine! 
1863.  1863. 


RALPB  WALDO  EMERSON  309 

DIVINA  COMMEDIA 

Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 

A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 

Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 

Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 
Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er:  5 

Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat; 

The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 

Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 
So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate,  10 

Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 
The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 

To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 

While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

1864. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

GOOD-BYE 

Good-bye,  proud  world!  I  'm  going  home: 

Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I  'm  not  thine. 

Long  through  thy  weary  crowds  I  roam; 

A  river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 

Long  I  Ve  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam;  5 

But  now,  proud  world,  I  'm  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  Flattery's  fawning  face, 

To  Grandeur,  with  his  wise  grimace, 

To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye, 

To  supple  Office  low  and  high,  i0 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street, 

To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet, 

To  those  who  go  and  those  who  come; 

Good-bye,  proud  world,  I  'm  going  home. 

I  am  going  to  my  own  hearth-stone  15 

Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills,  alone — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned: 


3IO  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 

Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay,  20 

And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 
O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines  25 

Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools  and  the  learned  clan, 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ?  30 

1823.  l839- 

THE  RHODORA 

ON   BEING   ASKED   WHENCE   IS   THE   FLOWER 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 

I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 

Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 

To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 

The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool,  5 

Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay; 

Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 

Rhodora,  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky,  10 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose, 

I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew; 

But  in  my  simple  ignorance  suppose  IS 

The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there,  brought  you. 

1834. 

EACH  AND  ALL 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 
Of  thee  from  the  hill- top  looking  down; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm; 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  311 

The  sexton  tolling  his  bell  at  noon,  5 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent.  10 

All  are  needed  by  each  one, 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough: 

I  brought  him  home  in  his  nest  at  even;  15 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now, 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky — 
He  sang  to  my  ear,  they  sang  to  my  eye. 
The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave  20 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 
And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me: 
I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home;  25 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 
With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  uproar. 
The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid 

As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed,  30 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  quire: 
At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 
Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage — 
The  gay  enchantment  was  undone,  35 

A  gentle  wife  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  "I  covet  truth: 
Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat; 
I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 
As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet  40 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 
Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 
I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 
Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 
Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground;  45 


312  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 
Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 
Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 
The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bin 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole;  50 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 
1834?  1839. 

THE  APOLOGY 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude 
That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen: 
I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I  5 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook: 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 
Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought:  10 

Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  't  is  figured  in  the  flowers; 

Was  never  secret  history  15 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 
Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong; 
A  second  crop  thine  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song.  20 

1834?  1846. 

HYMN 

SUNG   AT   THE   COMPLETION   OF   THE   CONCORD   MONUMENT 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 3*3 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept,  5 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps, 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 
Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone,  10 

That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare  15 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  Thee. 
1837.  1837. 

THE  HUMBLE-BEE 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee, 

Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me: 

Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 

Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek; 

I  will  follow  thee  alone,  5 

Thou  animated  torrid  zonel 

Zig-zag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 

Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines; 

Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 

Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines.  10 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  1 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere, 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon,  15 

Epicurean  of  June, 
Wait  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days,  20 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 
And,  with  softness  touching  all, 


314  AMERICAN  POEMS 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  a  color  of  romance,  25 

And,  infusing  subtle  heats, 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 

Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace  30 

With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 
Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 

Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 

Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 

Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers,  35 

Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 

In  Indian  wildernesses  found, 

Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 

Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean  40 

Hath  my  insect  never  seen; 

But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple  sap  and  daffodels, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 

Succory  to  match  the  sky,  45 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 

Scented  fern  and  agrimony, 

Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 

And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among: 

All  beside  was  unknown  waste;  50 

All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher  1 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet,  55 

Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep;  60 

Woe  and  want  thou  canst  out-sleep; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 
1837.  1839. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 3*5 

THE  PROBLEM 

I  like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl, 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul, 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains  or  pensive  smiles; 

Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see,  5 

Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 

Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought;  10 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 
Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 
The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came.  15 

Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 
Up  from  the  burning  core  below, 
The  canticles  of  love  and  woe. 
The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 
And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome,  20 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity: 
Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew; 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's  nest          25 
Of  leaves  and  feathers  from  her  breast  ? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell  ? 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 

To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ?  30 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone; 

And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids  35 

To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids; 
O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky 
As  on  its  friends  with  kindred  eye: 
For  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere 


3l6  AMERICAN  POEMS 


These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air;  40 

And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass;  45 

Art  might  obey  but  not  surpass. 
The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 
To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned, 
And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within.  50 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 
The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken  55 

Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 
In  groves  of  oak  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 

Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind:  60 

One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 

I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise; 
The  Book  itself  before  me  lies: 

Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine,  65 

And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines; 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 

I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear,  70 

And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 
1839.  1840. 

FROM 

WOOD-NOTES 

i 

For  this  present,  hard 
Is  the  fortune  of  the  bard 
Born  out  of  time; 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 317 

All  his  accomplishment 

From  Nature's  utmost  treasure  spent  5 

Booteth  not  him. 

When  the  pine  tosses  its  cones 

To  the  song  of  its  waterfall  tones, 

He  speeds  to  the  woodland  walks, 

To  birds  and  trees  he  talks;  10 

Caesar  of  his  leafy  Rome, 

There  the  poet  is  at  home. 

He  goes  to  the  river-side — 

Not  hook  nor  line  hath  he; 

He  stands  in  the  meadows  wide —  15 

Nor  gun  nor  scythe  to  see; 

With  none  has  he  to  do, 

And  none  seek  him, 

Nor  men  below, 

Nor  spirits  dim.  20 

Sure  some  god  his  eye  enchants: 

What  he  knows  nobody  wants. 

In  the  wood  he  travels  glad 

Without  better  fortune  had, 

Melancholy  without  bad.  *5 

Planter  of  celestial  plants, 

What  he  knows  nobody  wants; 

What  he  knows  he  hides,  not  vaunts. 

Knowledge  this  man  prizes  best 

Seems  fantastic  to  the  rest:  3° 

Pondering  shadows,  colors,  clouds, 

Grass-buds  and  caterpillar-shrouds, 

Boughs  on  which  the  wild  bees  settle, 

Tints  that  spot  the  violet's  petal, 

Why  Nature  loves  the  number  five,  35 

And  why  the  star-form  she  repeats. 

Lover  of  all  things  alive, 

Wonderer  at  all  he  meets, 

Wonderer  chiefly  at  himself, 

Who  can  tell  him  what  he  is,  40 

Or  how  meet  in  human  elf 

Coming  and  past  eternities  ? 

And  such  I  knew,  a  forest  seer, 

A  minstrel  of  the  natural  year, 


318  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Foreteller  of  the  vernal  ides,  45 

Wise  harbinger  of  spheres  and  tides, 

A  lover  true  who  knew  by  heart 

Each  joy  the  mountain  dales  impart. 

It  seemed  that  Nature  could  not  raise 

A  plant  in  any  secret  place,  50 

In  quaking  bog,  on  snowy  hill, 

Beneath  the  grass  that  shades  the  rill, 

Under  the  snow,  between  the  rocks, 

In  damp  fields  known  to  bird  and  fox, 

But  he  would  come  in  the  very  hour  55 

It  opened  in  its  virgin  bower, 

As  if  a  sunbeam  showed  the  place, 

And  tell  its  long-descended  race. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  breezes  brought  him, 

It  seemed  as  if  the  sparrows  taught  him,  60 

As  if  by  secret  sight  he  knew 

Where  in  far  fields  the  orchis  grew. 

Many  haps  fall  in  the  field 

Seldom  seen  by  wishful  eyes, 

But  all  her  shows  did  Nature  yield  65 

To  please  and  win  this  pilgrim  wise. 

He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods, 

He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn, 

He  found  the  tawny  thrush's  broods, 

And  the  shy  hawk  did  wait  for  him.  70 

What  others  did  at  distance  hear, 

And  guessed  within  the  thicket's  gloom, 

Was  showed  to  this  philosopher, 

And  at  his  bidding  seemed  to  come. 

In  unploughed  Maine,  he  sought  the  lumberers'  gang,      75 
Where  from  a  hundred  lakes  young  rivers  sprang; 
He  trode  the  unplanted  forest-floor,  whereon 
The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone, 
Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 
And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker.  80 

He  saw,  beneath  dim  aisles,  in  odorous  beds, 
The  slight  Linnaea  hang  its  twin-born  heads, 
And  blessed  the  monument  of  the  man  of  flowers, 
Which  breathes  his  sweet  fame  through  the  northern  bowers. 
He  heard,  when  in  the  grove,  at  intervals,  85 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  319 

With  sudden  roar  the  aged  pine-tree  falls — 

One  crash,  the  death-hymn  of  the  perfect  tree, 

Declares  the  close  of  its  green  century; 

Low  lies  the  plant  to  whose  creation  went 

Sweet  influence  from  every  element,  90 

Whose  living  towers  the  years  conspired  to  build, 

Whose  giddy  top  the  morning  loved  to  gild. 

Through  these  green  tents,  by  eldest  Nature  dressed, 

He  roamed,  content  alike  with  man  and  beast. 

Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at  night;  95 

There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with  its  light. 

Three  moons  his  great  heart  him  a  hermit  made, 

So  long  he  roved  at  will  the  boundless  shade. 

The  timid  it  concerns  to  ask  their  way, 

And  fear  what  foe  in  caves  and  swamps  can  stray,  100 

To  make  no  step  until  the  event  is  known, 

And  ills  to  come  as  evils  past  bemoan. 

Not  so  the  wise:  no  coward  watch  he  keeps 

To  spy  what  danger  on  his  pathway  creeps; 

Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home,  105 

His  hearth  the  earth,  his  hall  the  azure  dome; 

Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there  's  his  road, 

By  God's  own  light  illumined  and  foreshowed. 

'T  was  one  of  the  charmed  days 

When  the  genius  of  God  doth  flow:  no 

The  wind  may  alter  twenty  ways, 
A  tempest  cannot  blow; 
It  may  blow  north,  it  still  is  warm; 
Or  south,  it  still  is  clear; 

Or  east,  it  smells  like  a  clover-farm;  115 

Or  west,  no  thunder  fear. 
The  musing  peasant  lowly  great 
Beside  the  forest  water  sate: 
The  rope-like  pine-roots  crosswise  grown 
Composed  the  network  of  his  throne;  120 

The  wide  lake,  edged  with  sand  and  grass, 
Was  burnished  to  a  floor  of  glass, 
Painted  with  shadows  green  and  proud 
Of  the  tree  and  of  the  cloud. 

He  was  the  heart  of  all  the  scene:  I2$ 

On  him  the  sun  looked  more  serene; 


320  AMERICAN  POEMS 


To  hill  and  cloud  his  face  was  known, 
It  seemed  the  likeness  of  their  own; 
They  knew  by  secret  sympathy 

The  public  child  of  earth  and  sky.  130 

"You  ask,"  he  said,  "what  guide, 
Me  through  trackless  thickets  led, 
Through  thick-stemmed  woodlands  rough  and  wide  ? 
I  found  the  water's  bed: 

The  watercourses  were  my  guide;  •      135 

I  travelled  grateful  by  their  side, 
Or  through  their  channel  dry; 
They  led  me  through  the  thicket  damp, 
Through  brake  and  fern,  the  beavers'  camp, 
Through  beds  of  granite  cut  my  road,  140 

And  their  resistless  friendship  showed. 
The  falling  waters  led  me, 
The  foodful  waters  fed  me, 
And  brought  me  to  the  lowest  land, 
Unerring  to  the  ocean  sand.  145 

The  moss  upon  the  forest  bark 
Was  pole-star  when  the  night  was  dark; 
The  purple  berries  in  the  wood 
Supplied  me  necessary  food: 

For  Nature  ever  faithful  is  150 

To  such  as  trust  her  faithfulness. 
When  the  forest  shall  mislead  me, 
When  the  night  and  morning  lie, 
When  sea  and  land  refuse  to  feed  me, 
'T  will  be  time  enough  to  die;  155 

Then  will  yet  my  mother  yield 
A  pillow  in  her  greenest  field, 
Nor  the  June  flowers  scorn  to  cover 
The  clay  of  their  departed  lover." 

1840. 

THE  SPHINX 

The  Sphinx  is  drowsy: 

Her  wings  are  furled, 
Her  ear  is  heavy; 

She  broods  on  the  world. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  321 

"Who  '11  tell  me  my  secret  5 

The  ages  have  kept  ? — 
I  awaited  the  seer, 

While  they  slumbered  and  slept; — 

"The  fate  of  the  man-child, 

The  meaning  of  man;  10 

Known  fruit  of  the  unknown, 

Daedalian  plan; 
Out  of  sleeping  a  waking, 

Out  of  waking  a  sleep; 
Life  death  overtaking;  15 

Deep  underneath  deep  ? 

"Erect  as  a  sunbeam 

Upspringeth  the  palm; 
The  elephant  browses 

Undaunted  and  calm;  20 

In  beautiful  motion 

The  thrush  plies  his  wings — 
Kind  leaves  of  his  covert, 

Your  silence  he  sings. 

"The  waves,  unashamed,  25 

In  difference  sweet 
Play  glad  with  the  breezes, 

Old  playfellows  meet; 
The  journeying  atoms, 

Primordial  wholes,  30 

Firmly  draw,  firmly  drive, 

By  their  animate  poles. 

"Sea,  earth,  air,  sound,  silence, 

Plant,  quadruped,  bird, 
By  one  music  enchanted,  35 

One  deity  stirred, 
Each  the  other  adorning, 

Accompany  still ; 
Night  veileth  the  morning, 

The  vapor  the  hill.  40 


322  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"The  babe  by  its  mother 

Lies  bathSd  in  joy; 
Glide  its  hours  uncounted, 

The  sun  is  its  toy; 
Shines  the  peace  of  all  being,  45 

Without  cloud,  in  its  eyes, 
And  the  sum  of  the  world 

In  soft  miniature  lies. 

"But  man  crouches  and  blushes, 

Absconds  and  conceals;  50 

He  creepeth  and  peepeth, 

He  palters  and  steals; 
Infirm,  melancholy, 

Jealous  glancing  around, 
An  oaf,  an  accomplice,  55 

He  poisons  the  ground. 

"Out  spoke  the  great  mother, 

Beholding  his  fear 
(At  the  sound  of  her  accents 

Cold  shuddered  the  sphere):  60 

'Who  has  drugged  my  boy's  cup, 

Who  has  mixed  my  boy's  bread  ? 
Who  with  sadness  and  madness 

Has  turned  the  man-child's  head  ? '  " 

I  heard  a  poet  answer  65 

Aloud  and  cheerfully: 
"Say  on,  sweet  Sphinx!  thy  dirges 

Are  pleasant  songs  to  me. 
Deep  love  lieth  under 

These  pictures  of  time;  70 

They  fade  in  the  light  of 

Their  meaning  sublime. 

"The  fiend  that  man  harries 

Is  love  of  the  Best; 

Yawns  the  pit  of  the  Dragon  75 

Lit  by  rays  from  the  Blest. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  323 

The  Lethe  of  nature 

Can't  trance  him  again, 
Whose  soul  sees  the  perfect, 

Which  his  eyes  seek  in  vain.  So 

"Profounder,  profounder, 

Man's  spirit  must  dive; 
To  his  aye-rolling  orbit 

No  goal  will  arrive: 
The  heavens  that  now  draw  him  85 

With  sweetness  untold, 
Once  found — for  new  heavens 

He  spurneth  the  old. 

"Pride  ruined  the  angels, 

Their  shame  them  restores;  90 

And  the  joy  that  is  sweetest 

Lurks  in  stings  of  remorse. 
Have  I  a  lover 

Who  is  noble  and  free  ? — 
f  would  he  were  nobler  95 

Than  to  love  me. 


'Eterne  alternation 

Now  follows,  now  flies; 
And  under  pain,  pleasure, 

Under  pleasure,  pain  lies.  100 

Love  works  at  the  centre, 

Heart-heaving  alway; 
Forth  speed  the  strong  pulses 

To  the  borders  of  day. 

'Dull  Sphinx,  Jove  keep  thy  five  wits!  105 

Thy  sight  is  growing  blear; 
Rue,  myrrh,  and  cumin  for  the  Sphinx, 

Her  muddy  eyes  to  clear!" 
The  old  Sphinx  bit  her  thick  lip; 

Said,  "Who  taught  thee  me  to  name?          no 
I  am  thy  spirit,  yoke-fellow; 

Of  thine  eye  I  am  eyebeam. 


324  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"Thou  art  the  unanswered  question: 

Couldst  see  thy  proper  eye, 
Alway  it  asketh,  asketh,  115 

And  each  answer  is  a  lie. 
So  take  thy  quest  through  nature, 

It  through  thousand  natures  ply; 
Ask  on,  thou  clothed  eternity — 

Time  is  the  false  reply."  120 

Uprose  the  merry  Sphinx, 

And  crouched  no  more  in  stone; 
She  melted  into  purple  cloud, 

She  silvered  in  the  moon, 
She  spired  into  a  yellow  flame,  125 

She  flowered  in  blossoms  red, 
She  flowed  into  a  foaming  wave, 

She  stood  Monadnoc's  head. 

Thorough  a  thousand  voices 

Spoke  the  universal  dame:  130 

"Who  telleth  one  of  my  meanings 
Is  master  of  all  I  am." 

1841. 

THE  SNOW-STORM 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 

Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 

Seems  nowhere  to  alight;  the  whited  air 

Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 

And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end.  5 

The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 

Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 

Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 

In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north  wind's  masonry.  10 

Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake  or  tree  or  door. 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work  15 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  325 

So  fanciful,  so  savage,  naught  cares  he 

For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly 

On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths; 

A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn; 

Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall,  20 

Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs;  and  at  the  gate 

A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 

And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 

Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 

Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,,  astonished  Art  25 

To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 

Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 

The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

1841. 

FORBEARANCE 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun  ? 

Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on  its  stalk  ? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse  ? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of  trust  ? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior  5 

In  man  or  maid  that  thou  from  speech  refrained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay  ? 

O,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to  be  thine! 

1842.  ' 

DAYS 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will:  5 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 

Turned  and  departed  silent.    I,  too  late,  10 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

1851. 


326  AMERICAN  POEMS 


BRAHMA 

If  the  red  slayer  thinks  he  slays, 

Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 
They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 

I  keep  and  pass  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near;  5 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out: 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings;  10 

I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 

And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 
But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good,  15 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 

1857- 

FROM 

VOLUNTARIES 

In  an  age  of  fops  and  toys, 

Wanting  wisdom,  void  of  right, 

Who  shall  nerve  heroic  boys 

To  hazard  all  in  Freedom's  fight — 

Break  sharply  off  their  jolly  games,  5 

Forsake  their  comrades  gay, 

And  quit  proud  homes  and  youthful  dames 

For  famine,  toil,  and  fray  ? 

Yet  on  the  nimble  air  benign 

Speed  nimbler  messages,  10 

That  waft  the  breath  of  grace  divine 

To  hearts  in  sloth  and  ease: 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 

When  Duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must,  15 

The  youth  replies,  I  can. 

1863. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON    327 

TERMINUS 

It  is  time  to  be  old, 
To  take  in  sail: 
The  god  of  bounds, 
Who  sets  to  seas  a  shore, 

Came  to  me  in  his  fatal  rounds  S 

And  said:  "No  more! 
No  farther  spread 

Thy  broad  ambitious  branches  and  thy  root. 
Fancy  departs:  no  more  invent; 

Contract  thy  firmament  10 

To  compass  of  a  tent. 
There  's  not  enough  for  this  and  that, 
Make  thy  option  which  of  two; 
Economize  the  failing  river, 

Not  the  less  revere  the  Giver;  15 

Leave  the  many  and  hold  the  few. 
Timely  wise,  accept  the  terms, 
Soften  the  fall  with  wary  foot; 
A  little  while 

Still  plan  and  smile,  20 

And,  fault  of  novel  germs, 
Mature  the  unfallen  fruit. 
Curse,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  sires, 
Bad  husbands  of  their  fires, 

Who,  when  they  gave  thee  breath,  25 

Failed  to  bequeath 
The  needful  sinew  stark  as  once, 
The  Baresark  marrow  to  thy  bones, 
But  left  a  legacy  of  ebbing  veins, 
Inconstant  heat  and  nerveless  reins;  30 

Amid  the  Muses  left  thee  deaf  and  dumb, 
Amid  the  gladiators  halt  and  numb." 
As  the  bird  trims  her  to  the  gale, 
I  trim  myself  to  the  storm  of  time; 
I  man  the  rudder,  reef  the  sail,  35 

Obey  the  voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime: 
"Lowly  faithful,  banish  fear, 
Right  onward  drive  unharmed; 
The  port,  well  worth  the  cruise,  is  near, 
And  every  wave  is  charmed."  40 

1866. 


328  AMERICAN  POEMS 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA 

The  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts  Bay: 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle-bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of  horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways  go,  5 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow; 

And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their  errands  far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia;  thy  stormy  words  and  high 

Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt  along  our  sky;  10 

Yet  not  one  brown  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest  labor  here, 

No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St.  George's  bank; 

Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank; 

Through  storm  and  wave  and  blinding  mist  stout  are  the  hearts  which 

man  15 

The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats  of  Cape  Ann: 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy  forms 

Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling  with  the  storms; 

Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves  they  roam, 

They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their  rocky  home.  20 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion  ?    Hath  she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's  steel  array  ? 
How  side  by  side  with  sons  of  hers  the  Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire  and  stout  Cornwallis,  then? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call  25 

Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Faneuil  Hall? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "LIBERTY  OR  DEATH!" 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 329 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?     If  now  her  sons  have  proved 

False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  false  to  the  faith  they  loved,  30 

If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom  and  its  great  charter  spurn, 

Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty  turn? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful  hell  ? 

Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  bloodhound's  yell  ? 

We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers'  graves,  35 

From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your  wretched  slaves? 

Thank  God  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts  bowl 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now; 

Dream  not,  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow  and  calm  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's  slave  and  tool!  40 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a.  free  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early  day; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stagger  with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have  sown. 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and  burden  God's  free  air     45 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manhood's  wild  despair; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "cleaving  curse"  that  writes  upon  your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of  old, 

By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human  flesh  is  sold;  5° 

Gloat  o'er  the  new-bora  child,  and  count  his  market  value  when 

The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the  slaver's  den. 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth  sink  the  Virginian  name; 

Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest  weeds  of  shame; 

Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe—  55 

We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin  and  shame  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's  shrine  hath  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's  mountain  men; 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill.  6° 


330  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  gray, 
How  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son  the  father's  warning  spoke! 
How  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect  the  Pilgrim  city  broke! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on  high,  65 

A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud  reply; 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling  summons  rang, 

And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young  mechanics  sprang. 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex — of  thousands  as  of  one, — 

The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington;  70 

From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages;  from  Plymouth's  rocky  bound 

To  where  Nan  tucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close  her  round; 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the  calm  repose 

Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle  Nashua  flows, 

To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain  larches  stir, —  75 

Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  "God  save  Latimer!" 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea  spray, 
And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragansett  Bay; 
Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the  thrill, 
And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down  from  Holyoke 

Hill.  80 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts— of  her  free  sons  and  daughters,— 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud — the  sound  of  many  waters! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power  shall  stand  ? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State!    No  slave  upon  her  land! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians!     In  calmness  we  have  borne,  85 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your  scorn; 
You  've  spurned  our  kindest  counsels,  you  Ve  hunted  for  our  lives, 
And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your  manacles  and  gyves. 

We  wage  no  war — we  lift  no  arm — we  fling  no  torch  within 

The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil  of  sin;  90 

We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle  while  ye  can 

With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  God-like  soul  of  man. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  331 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children  the  vow  which  we  have  given 

For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered  in  heaven: 

No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders — no  pirate  on  our  strand/  95 

A70  fetters  in  the  Bay  State — no  slave  upon  our  land! 

1842.  1843. 

PROEM 

I  love  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through: 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew.  5 

Yet  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky.  10 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are 

here.  15 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes.  20 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 

Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find.  25 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown; 


332  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 
And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own.  30 

Oh  Freedom,  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still,  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine.        35 

1*47.  1849- 

ICHABOD 

So  fallen,  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore! 

Revile  him  not — the  Tempter  hath  5 

A  snare  for  all; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall. 

Oh  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage 

When  he  who  might  ic 

Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  ?  would  the  angels  laugh  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark,  15 

From  hope  and  heaven  ? 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow.  20 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament  as  for  the  dead 

In  sadness  make. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  333 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  nought  25 

Save  power  remains — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone;  from  those  great  eyes 
•          The  soul  has  fled:  30 

When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 
The  man  is  dead. 

Then  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze,  31 

And  hide  the  shame. 
1850.  1850. 

WORDSWORTH 

WRITTEN   ON   A   BLANK   LEAF   OF   HIS   MEMOIRS 

Dear  friends  who  read  the  world  aright, 

And  in  its  common  forms  discern 
A  beauty  and  a  harmony 

The  many  never  learn, 

Kindred  in  soul  of  him  who  found  5 

In  simple  flower  and  leaf  and  stone 
The  impulse  of  the  sweetest  lays 

Our  Saxon  tongue  has  known, 

Accept  this  record  of  a  life 

As  sweet  and  pure,  as  calm  and  good,  10 

As  a  long  day  of  blandest  June 

In  green  field  and  in  wood. 

How  welcome  to  our  ears,  long  pained 

By  strife  of  sect  and  party  noise, 
The  brook-like  murmur  of  his  song  15 

Of  nature's  simple  joys. 

The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 

The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 
And  chance-sown  daffodil,  have  found 

Immortal  life  through  him.  20 


334  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 

The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, 
World-seen,  are  gladdening  all  the  vales 

And  mountain-peaks  of  thought. 

Art  builds  on  sand;  the  works  of  pride  25 

And  human  passion  change  and  fall; 
But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 

With  Him  surviveth  all. 
1851.  1851. 

SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE 

I.   NOON 

White  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep, 
Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep; 

O  isles  of  calm,  O  dark,  still  wood, 

And  stiller  skies,  that  overbrood  5 

Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude; 

0  shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land,  10 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 
And  skies  the  hollow  of  God's  hand; 

Transfused  through  you,  O  mountain  friends, 

With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 

And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends.  15 

1  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease; 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release  20 

Of  nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 


JOHN  GREEN  LEAF  WHITTIER  335 

O  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind: 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away;  25 

A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 

Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 

The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers.  30 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low; 
And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow, 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 

Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall,  35 

Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call, 

That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray; 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day. 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I  40 

Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely, 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 

With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 

No  evil  to  his  creatures  wills,  45 

The  simple  faith  remains  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree; 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 

What  light  and  life  the  other  know,  50 

Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 


336  AMERICAN  POEMS 


II.    EVENING 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night; 

While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleaming  crown 
The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 

On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles,  5 

Each  silver-hemmed!     How  sharply  show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem, 

Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still  light!  i<? 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 

They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 

Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave, 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail  15 

And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes,  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 

Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 
What  time  before  the  eastern  light 

The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon  20 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 

And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall  break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 

And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake. 

Farewell!  around  this  smiling  bay  25 

Gay-hearted  Health  and  Life  in  bloom, 
With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 

In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 

These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I,  30 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 

Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky, 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  337 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 

On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay, 
Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled  35 

And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 

Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering  here, 

Shall  add  to  life's  abounding  joy 

The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear:  40 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 

Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 
An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes  45 

One  blessing  from  us  others  fall; 
And  soon  or  late  our  Father  makes 

His  perfect  recompense  to  all. 

O,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 

And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace  50 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 

Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland,  keep  thy  dower 

Of  beauty  still;  and  while,  above, 
Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power,  55 

Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 

1853- 

MAUD  MULLER 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee  5 

The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 


338  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 

And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast —  10 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade  15 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 

And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup,  20 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"Thanks!"  said  the  Judge;  "a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees,  25 

Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown 

And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown,  30 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed:  "Ah  me,  35 

That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  I 


JOHN  GREEN  LEAF  WHITTIER  339 

"He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat.  40 

"  I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill,  45 

And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still: 

"A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair.  50 

"Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay; 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds,  55 

And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on. 

And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone.  60 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 


340  AMERICAN  POEMS 


He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower,  65 

Who  lived  for  fashion  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go, 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 

Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise.  70 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead, 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain,  75 

"Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  1 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode,  that  day, 
Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 

And  many  children  played  round  her  door.  80 

But  care  and  sorrow  and  childbirth  pain 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall  85 

Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein; 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 

She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face.  90 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  341 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug,  95 

Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty,  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 

Saying  only,  "It  might  have  been."  100 

Alas,  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  I 

God  pity  them  both!  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen  105 

The  saddest  are  these:  "It  might  have  beenl" 

Ah,  well!  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 

Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away!  no 

1854. 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 

Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan; 

With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 

And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 

With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still  5 

Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill; 

With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 

Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace: 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy — 

I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy!  10 

Prince  thou  art — the  grown-up  man 

Only  is  republican. 


342 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Let  the  million-dollared  ride! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy  15 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye — 

Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 

Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy! 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play; 

Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day;  20 

Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules; 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools: — 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude  25 

Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young,  30 

How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine;  35 

Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans! — 

For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks,  4° 

Nature  answers  all  he  asks; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy. 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy!  45 

O  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for! 

I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees,  5° 

Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 343 

For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 

Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone;  55 

Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 

Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 

Whispering  at  the  garden  wall 

Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 

Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond,  60 

Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 

Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 

Apples  of  Hesperides! 

Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 

Larger  grew  my  riches  too;  65 

All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 

Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy 

Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy! 

O  for  festal  dainties  spread, 

Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  70 

Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone  gray  and  rude! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 

Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold,  75 

Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold, 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 

Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire.  80 

I  was  monarch :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh  as  boyhood  can! 

Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard,  85 

Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 

Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat.  90 

All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 


344  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil  95 

Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil; 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground, 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 

Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin.  100 

Ah,  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy! 
1855.  1856. 

SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 

Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme — 

On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 

Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 

Witch  astride  of  a  human  hack,  5 

Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak — 

The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 

Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart 

Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart  10 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 

Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart.  15 

Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain: 
"Here 's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt  20 

Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  com 
By  the  women  o*  Morble'eadl" 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase  25 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  345 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang:  30 

"Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'eadl" 

Small  pity  for  him!    He  sailed  away 

From  a  leaking  ship  in  Chaleur  Bay —  35 

Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck 

With  nis  own  town's-people  on  her  deck. 

'Lay  byl  lay  by!"  they  called  to  him. 

Back  he  answered,  "Sink  or  swim! 

Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again!"  40 

And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain. 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead. 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur  45 

That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore: 

Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 

Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 

Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea, 

Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be  I  50 

What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 

Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ? 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead!  55 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray; 

Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound,  60 

Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head  and  fist  and  hat  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain: 
"Here 's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt  65 

By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 


346  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed: 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 

Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue;  70 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 

"Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt  75 

Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

"Hear  me,  neighbors!"  at  last  he  cried; 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 

What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin  80 

To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me — I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead! "  85 

Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "God  has  touched  him!  why  should  we?"  90 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run!" 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in,  95 

And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 
1828,  1857.  1857. 

TELLING  THE  BEES 

Here  is  the  place:  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow  brook. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 347 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barred,  5 

And  the  poplars  tall; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall. 

There  are  the  bee-hives  ranged  in  the  sun; 

And  down  by  the  brink  10 

Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed  o'er-run, 

Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows,  15 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There  's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the  breeze; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm.  20 

I  mind  me  how,  with  a  lover's  care, 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burs,  and  smoothed  my  hair, 

And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my  brow  and  throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed —  25 

To  love,  a  year; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now — the  slantwise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves,  30 

The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the  door, —  35 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black.  40 


348  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Trembling,  I  listened:  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow, 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "My  Mary  weeps  45 

For  the  dead  to-day: 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low;  on  the  doorway  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin,  50 

The  old  man  sat;  and  the  chore-girl  still 
Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on: 
"Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence —  55 

Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gonel" 
1858.  1858. 

MY  PLAYMATE 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 

Their  song  was  soft  and  low; 
The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 

Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet,  5 

The  orchard  birds  sang  clear; 
The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 

It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 

My  playmate  left  her  home,  10 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 

The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine: 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy  15 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  349 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May: 

The  constant  years  told  o'er 
Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 

But  she  came  back  no  more.  20 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year  *5 

Her  summer  roses  blow; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 

She  smooths  her  silken  gown —  3° 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 

I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet  35 

The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea.  4° 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 

And  how  the  old  time  seems; 
If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 

Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice:  45 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 

For  other  eyes  than  ours;  5° 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 


350  AMERICAN  POEMS 


O  playmate  in  the  golden  time, 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet,  55 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago.  60 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea — 
The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 

Between  myself  and  theel 
1859-60.  1860. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep,  5 

Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 

When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall,  10 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the  sun  15 

Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  351 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down;  20 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right  25 

He  glanced;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"Halt!"— the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"Fire!" — out-blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane,  and  sash, 

It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash.  30 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head,  35 

But  spare  your  country's  flag!"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 

To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word:  40 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog!  March  on!"  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet; 


352  AMERICAN  POEMS 


All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost  45 

Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host; 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 

Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night.  50 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her;  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave,  55 

Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town!  60 

1863.  1863. 

ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT 

In  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 

With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the  people  sent 

Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public  laws. 

And  so,  from  a  brown  homestead,  where  the  Sound 

Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mianas,  5 

Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippowams, 

And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tranquil  deaths, 

Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the  State 

Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Davenport. 

T  was  on  a  May-day  of  the  far  old  year  10 

Seventeen  hundred  eighty  that  there  fell 
Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the  Spring, 
Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of  noon, 
A  horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the  night 
In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas  tell —  15 


JOHN  GREENLEAP  WHITTIER  355 

The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.    The  low-hung  sky 

Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save  where  its  rim 

Was  fringed  with  a  dull  glow,  like  that  which  climbs 

The  crater's  sides  from  the  red  hell  below. 

Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barn-yard  fowls  20 

Roosted;  the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 

Lowed,  and  looked  homeward;  bats  on  leathern  wings 

Flitted  abroad;  the  sounds  of  labor  died; 

Men  prayed,  and  women  wept;  all  ears  grew  sharp 

To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet  shatter  25 

The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of  Christ 

Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  as  he  looked 

A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 

As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State  House,  dim  as  ghosts,       30 
Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 
Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 
"It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Dayl  Let  us  adjourn," 
Some  said;  and  then,  as  if  with  one  accord, 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Davenport.  35 

He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 
The  intolerable  hush:  "This  well  may  be 
The  Day  of  Judgment  which  the  world  awaits; 
But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 

My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command  40 

To  occupy  till  he  come.     So,  at  the  post 
Where  be  hath  set  me  in  his  providence, 
I  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  him  face  to  face — 
No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my  task, 
But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  calls;  45 

And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I  would  say 
Let  God  do  his  work,  we  will  see  to  ours. 
Bring  in  the  candles."     And  they  brought  them  in. 

Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker  read, 
Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking  hands,  sr 

An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 
The  shad  and  alewive  fisheries.     Whereupon 
Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Davenport, 
Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures  of  speech 
Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without  5^ 

The  shrewd  dry  humor  natural  to  the  man; 


354  AMERICAN  POEMS 


His  awestruck  colleagues  listening  all  the  while, 

Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 

To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 

Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the  cloud.  60 

And  there  he  stands,  in  memory,  to  this  day — 
Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face,  half  seen 
Against  the  background  of  unnatural  dark, 
A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass 

That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear.  65 

1866. 

SNOW-BOUND 

The  sun,  that  brief  December  day, 

Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray; 

And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 

A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon; 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky  5 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out,  10 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 

Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east:  we  heard  the  roar  15 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors,  20 

Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows; 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn, 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 

Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows  25 

The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows, 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  355 

And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent  3° 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As,  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro,  35 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow; 

And  ere  the  early  bed-time  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts.  40 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on; 
The  morning  broke  without  a  sun; 
In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 
Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake  and  pellicle  45 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell; 
And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 
We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 
On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own: 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent  50 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 
No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below— 
A  universe  of  sky  and  snow! 
The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes:  strange  domes  and  towers          55 
Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 
Or  garden-wall  or  belt  of  wood; 
A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 
A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road; 
The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat,  60 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat; 
The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 
And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 
In  its  slant  splendor  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle.  65 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted:  "Boys,  a  path!" 
Well  pleased  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy?), 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew;  70 


356  AMERICAN  POEMS 


With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low 

To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 

We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through; 

And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 

A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid  75 

With  dazzling  crystal:  we  had  read 

Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 

And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 

With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 

To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers.  go 

We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 

And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 

The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 

And,  grave  with  wonder,  gazed  about; 

The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said,  85 

And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led; 

The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 

And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked; 

The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 

Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep,  QO 

Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 

And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 
The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before. 

Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone,  95 

The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone. 
No  bell  the  hush  of  silence  broke, 
No  neighboring  chimney's  social  smoke 
Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak: 
A  solitude  made  more  intense  IQO 

By  dreary-voiced  elements — 
The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 
The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 
And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 

Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet.  105 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 
No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 
Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 
Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 

We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear  no 

The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 


JOHN  GREEN  LEAF  WHITTIER  357 

The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 

Had  been  to  us  companionship, 

And  in  our  lonely  life  had  grown 

To  have  an  almost  human  tone.  115 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 

Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 

The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 

From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 

We  piled  with  care  our  nightly  stack  120 

Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back — 

The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 

And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick; 

The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 

And  filled  between  with  curious  art  125 

The  ragged  brush;  then,  hovering  near, 

We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 

Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 

On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 

Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room  130 

Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom; 

While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 

Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 

And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 

Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free —  135 

The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 

The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed, — 

While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 

Whispered  the  old  rhyme,  "  Under  the  tree,  140 

When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 

There  the  witches  are  making  tea" 
The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 

Shone  at  its  full;  the  hill-range  stood 

Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood,  145 

Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 

Dead  white  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 

Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 

Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 

Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back.  150 

For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 

Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light. 


358  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 

To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without,  155 

We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 

Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 

In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 

While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 

The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat;  160 

And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 

Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 

The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 

The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed. 

The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread  iflr 

Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 

The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 

A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall; 

And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 

Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet,  170 

The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 

The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 

And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 
What  matter  how  the  night  behaved?  i75 

What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved  ? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 
O  Time  and  Change! — with  hair  as  gray 
As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day,  ^o 

How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 
Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on! 
Ah,  brother!  only  I  and  thou 
Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now — 

The  dear  home  faces  whereupon  185 

That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 
Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 
The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still; 
Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o'er, 
Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more.  Igo 

We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn, 
We  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 
We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  359 

And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn, 

We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read,  195 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er; 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 

No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor! 

Yet  Love  will  dream  and  Faith  will  trust  200 

(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just) 
That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must. 
Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees; 
Who  hopeless  lays  his  dead  away,  205 

Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play; 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death,  210 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own! 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 
Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 
Or  stammered  from  our  school-book  lore 
"The  Chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore."  215 

How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 
Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 
As  if  a  trumpet  called  I  've  heard 
Dame  Mercy  Warren's  rousing  word: 
"Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry,  220 

'Claim  the  first  right  which  Nature  gave/ 
From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly, 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave! ' " 

Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 

On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side;  225 

Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp; 
Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
Beneath  St.  Francois'  hemlock-trees; 

Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone  230 

On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone; 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
Which  led  the  village  dance  away, 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 


36c  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl.  235 

Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

Mile- wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee; 
Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 
Swept,  scythe  on  scythe,  their  swaths  along  240 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 

And,  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals, 

The  hake-broil  on  the  drift-wood  coals; 
The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made,  245 

Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot, 
With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 
We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old 
And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 

To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay  250 

Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 
Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 

When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 

The  square  sail  of  the  gundalow, 
And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars.  255 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 
At  midnight  on  Cochecho  town, 

And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore  260 

His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 
Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 

So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free 

(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 

Of  simple  life  and  country  ways),  265 

The  story  of  her  early  days, 
She  made  for  us  the  sunset  shine 
Aslant  the  tall  columnar  pine; 
The  river  at  her  father's  door 

Its  rippled  meanings  whispered  o'er;  270 

We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 
The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away. 
So  well  she  gleaned  from  earth  and  sky 
That  harvest  of  the  ear  and  eye,  275 


JOHN  GREEN  LEAF  WHITTIER  361 

We  almost  felt  the  gusty  air 
That  swept  her  native  wood-paths  bare, 
Heard  the  far  thresher's  rhythmic  flail, 
The  flapping  of  the  fisher's  sail, 

Or  saw  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay  280 

The  ducks'  black  squadron  anchored  lay, 
Or  heard  the  wild  geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 
Then,  haply,  with  a  look  more  grave 

And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave  285 

From  painful  Sewell's  ancient  tome, 
Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 
Of  faith  fire- winged  by  martyrdom: 
Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and  quaint, 
Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint!  290 

Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  prevailed, 
And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed, 
And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 
His  portly  presence,  mad  for  food, 

With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath  295 

Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 
Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies, 
To  be  himself  the  sacrifice; 
Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 

The  good  man  from  his  living  grave,  300 

A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 
A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view; 
"Take,  eat,"  he  said,  "and  be  content; 
These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 

By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram  305 

To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham." 
Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 
But  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks — 
The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 

Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyceum —  310 

In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise, 
He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 
And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine 
By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 

Holding  the  cunning- warded  keys  315 

To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries; 


362  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 

That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 

Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old,  320 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes,  who  interpreted 

What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said. 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 

Content  to  live  where  life  began,  325 

Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 

Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 

The  common  features  magnified  330 

(As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 

In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view), 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done,  335 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun; 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew: 

From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew,  340 

The  partridge  drummed  i'  the  wood,  the  mink 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink, 

In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay 

The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell,  345 

The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid, 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell. 

Next,  the  dear  aunt,  whose  smile  of  cheer  350 

And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear — 
The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 
Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 

Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness,  355 

And  welcome  whereso'er  she  went, 
A  calm  and  gracious  element, 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  363 

Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  income 

And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home — 

Called  up  her  girlhood  memories,  360 

The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 

The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 

Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 

And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 

A  golden  woof-thread  of  romance:  365 

For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 

And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood; 

Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 

The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way; 

The  morning  dew,  that  dries  so  soon  370 

With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon; 

Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 

From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 

All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 

The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart.  375 

Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 

Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 
Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside; 

A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust,  380 

Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 
Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act 
And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 
Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 

The  secret  of  self-sacrifice.  385 

O  heart  sore-tried,  thou  hast  the  best 
That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee — rest, 
Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things! 

How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 

With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent  390 

Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings  I 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 

Upon  the  motley-braided  mat  395 

Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 
Now  bathed  within  the  fadeless  green 


364  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 

O,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill,  400 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still  ? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow  405 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 
I  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 

I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod  410 

Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 
Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad;  the  brier-rose  fills  415 

The  air  with  sweetness;  all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky: 
But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 
For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 
A  loss  in  all  familiar  things,  420 

In  flower  that  blooms  and  bird  that  sings. 
And  yet,  dear  heart,  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I  hold  ?  425 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 
Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me  ? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 

Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows  grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon  430 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand,  435 

And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 

Brisk  wielder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 
The  master  of  the  district  school 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  365 

Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place:  440 

Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 

Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  appeared 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 

He  played  the  old  and  simple  games 

Our  modern  boyhood  scarcely  names,  445 

Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 

In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls. 

Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 

From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 

By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant,  450 

Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 

He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 

His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way; 

Could  doff  at  ease  his  scholar's  gown 

To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town;  455 

Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 

In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 

Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 

At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round — 

The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight,  460 

The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty  night, 

The  rustic  party  with  its  rough 

Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff 

And  whirling  plate  and  forfeits  paid — 

His  winter  task  a  pastime  made.  465 

Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 

He  tuned  his  merry  violin, 

Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 

Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding  yarn, 

Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told  470 

Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old — 

Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and  Rome 

Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 

And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 

'Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods,  475 

Where  Pindus-born  Araxes  took 

The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 

And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 

Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A  careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed;  480 


366  AMERICAN  POEMS 


But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed 

And  hostage  from  the  future  took 

In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 

Large-brained,  clear-eyed — of  such  as  he  485 

Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail, 
Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail: 
All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike, 
Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike;  490 

Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 
Which  nurtured  Treason's  monstrous  growth, 
Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell  495 

Of  prison- torture  possible; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  recast,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 

For  blind  routine,  wise-handed  skill;  500 

A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence; 
Till  North  and  South,  together  brought, 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought,  505 

In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 
And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 
And  unresentful  rivalry, 
Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 

Another  guest,  that  winter  night,  510 

Flashed  back  from  lustrous  eyes  the  light. 
Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 
The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 
And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 

A  nature  passionate  and  bold,  SIS 

Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide, 
Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 
Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 
She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 

A  not  unf eared,  half- welcome  guest,  520 

Rebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  367 

Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways. 
A  certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 

Swayed  the  lithe  limbs  and  drooped  the  lash, 

Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling  flash;  525 

And  under  low  brows,  black  with  night, 

Rayed  out  at  times  a  dangerous  light, 
The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 
Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 

Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate.  530 

A  woman  tropical,  intense 
In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 
She  blended  in  a  like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 
Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint  535 

The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 
The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint: 
Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 
Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist; 

The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes  540 

Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise; 
Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 
Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout; 
And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes  more  high 
And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry.  545 

Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 
Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 
What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 
Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock  ? 

Through  Smyrna's  plague-hushed  thoroughfares,  550 

Up  sea-set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 
Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem 
Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 
Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 

The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon  555 

With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 
Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way; 
And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and  gray, 
She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 

With  hope  each  day  renewed  and  fresh,  560 

The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  flesh, 
Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies! 


368  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Where'er  her  troubled  path  may  be, 

The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go! 
The  outward  wayward  life  we  see,  560 

The  hidden  springs  we  may  not  know; 
Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 

What  threads  the  fatal  sisters  spun, 
Through  what  ancestral  years  has  run 
The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born,  570 

What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of  moods, 
What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 
What  mingled  madness  in  the  blood, 

A  life-long  discord  and  annoy,  575 

Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy, 
And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 

Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 
It  is  not  ours  to  separate 

The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate,  580 

To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should  stand 
Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 
And  between  choice  and  Providence 
Divide  the  circle  of  events; 

But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just,  585 

Merciful  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is 

That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust! 
At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling  low,  590 

Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow; 
The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view, 
Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 
Pointed  with  mutely-warning  sign 

Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine.  595 

That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke: 
My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 
Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray, 
And  laid  it  tenderly  away, 

Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover  600 

The  dull  red  brands  with  ashes  over; 
And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  369 

The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 

One  moment,  seeking  to  express 

Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness  605 

For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and  health, 

And  love's  contentment  more  than  wealth, 

With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 

Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek, 

But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart,  610 

O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 

That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 

For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth  and  light. 

Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 

The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared,  615 

With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 
Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock; 
We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost, 
The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost; 
And  on  us,  through  the  unplastered  wall,  620 

Felt  the  light-sifted  snow-flakes  fall. 
But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 
When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new; 
Faint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs  grew, 
Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams  625 

They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 
Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 
And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 
Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear,  630 

And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 
To  break  the  drifted  highways  out: 
Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 
We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go, 

Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost,  635 

Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost. 
Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 
Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain: 
The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a-cold, 

Passed,  with  the  cider-mug,  their  jokes  640 

From  lip  to  lip;  the  younger  folks 
Down  the  loose  snow-banks,  wrestling,  rolled. 


370 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 

O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged  ravine, 

And  woodland  paths  that  wound  between  645 

Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter-weighed. 
From  every  barn  a  team  afoot; 
At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 
Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest  law, 
Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw  650 

Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 
And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 
Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 
Against  the  snow-ball's  compliments, 
And  reading  in  each  missive  tost  655 

The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 
We  heard  once  more  the  sleigh-bells'  sound; 
And,  following  where  the  teamsters  led, 
The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 

Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say,  660 

In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 
Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 

At  night  our  mother's  aid  would  need:  665 

For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed, 

What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's  sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect  670 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity! 

So  days  went  on;  a  week  had  passed 
Since  the  great  world  was  heard  from  last.  675 

The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er, 
Read  and  reread  our  little  store 
Of  books  and  pamphlets,  scarce  a  score: 
One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 

From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid;  680 

And  poetry  (or  good  or  bad, 
A  single  book  was  all  we  had) 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  371 

Where  Ellwood's  meek,  drab-skirted  Muse, 

A  stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 

Sang,  with  a  somewhat  nasal  whine,  685 

The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 
At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 
The  village  paper  to  our  door. 
Lo,  broadening  outward  as  we  read, 

To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread;  690 

In  panoramic  length  unrolled 
We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told: 
Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 

And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 

In  dim  Floridian  everglades;  695 

And  up  Taygetos  winding  slow 
Rode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 
A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle-bowl 
Welcome  to  us  its  week-old  news, 
Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse,  700 

Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and  rain, 
Its  record  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wedding  knell  and  dirge  of  death, 
Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 

The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail,  705 

Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 

And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain. 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 

The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat;  710 

The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 
Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow; 
Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  morel 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look  715 

And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 

And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book — 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 

Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past,  720 

Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 


372  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  characters  of  joy  and  woe, 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 

Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death,  725 

And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 
Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 

With  the  white  amaranths  underneath. 
Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 

The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall,  730 

Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp  need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids; 

I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids  735 

The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 
For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears: 
Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  today! 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life,  740 

Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its  strife, 
The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngful  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew; 

And  dear  and  early  friends — the  few  745 

Who  yet  remain — shall  pause  to  view 

These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days, 
Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth 

To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's  blaze!  750 

And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 

Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond;  755 

The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 

1865.  1866. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITT1ER  373 

THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS 

0  friends  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 

The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 
Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  love  of  man  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument;  5 

Your  logic  linked  and  strong 

I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent 

And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds;  10 

Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 

My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan  ? 
The  Lord  is  God!    He  needeth  not  15 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 

Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod; 
I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 

The  love  and  power  of  God.  20 

Ye  praise  His  justice;  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem. 
Ye  seek  a  king;  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods  25 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 

More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within 

Myself,  alas,  I  know;  30 

Too  dark  ye  cannot  paint  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show 


374 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 

I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame, 
And  urge,  in  trembling  self-distrust,  35 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin.  40 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 

And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 
To  one  fixed  stake  my  spirit  clings: 

I  know  that  God  is  good. 

Not  mine  to  look  when  cherubim  45 

And  seraphs  may  not  see; 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above:  50 

I  know  not  of  His  hate — I  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love. 

I  dimly  guess,  from  blessings  known , 

Of  greater  out  of  sight; 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own  55 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 

For  vanished  smiles  I  long; 
But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 

And  He  can  do  no  wrong.  60 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak  65 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


375 


No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 

Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove;  70 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 

And  plead  His  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar: 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me  75 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  His  love  and  care.  80 

O  brothers,  if  my  faith  is  vain, 

If  hopes  like  these  betray, 
Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 

The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  Thou,  O  Lord,  by  whom  are  seen  85 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be. 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee. 

1867. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

OLD  IRONSIDES 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout,  5 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar: 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe,  TO 

When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood 

And  waves  were  white  below, 


376  AMERICAN  POEMS 


No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee: 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck  15 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

O,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave:  20 

Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms. 

The  lightning  and  the  gale! 
1830.  1830. 

MY  AUNT 

My  aunt!  my  dear  unmarried  aunt! 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown, 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone; 
I  know  it  hurts  her,  though  she  looks  5 

As  cheerful  as  she  can: 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt!  my  poor  deluded  aunt! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray;  10 

Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When  through  a  double  convex  lens  15 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 

Her  father— grandpapa,  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles:  20 

He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school 

(T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June), 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 
"Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  377 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board,  25 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small; 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins:  30 

O,  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth  35 

Might  follow  on  the  track): 
"Ah!"  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man!"  40 

Alas,  nor  chariot  nor  barouche 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been!  45 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 

1831. 

THE  LAST  LEAF 

I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door; 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground  5 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 

Not  a  better  man  was  found  10 

By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 


378  AMERICAN  POEMS 


But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan;  15 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 
"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest  20 

In  their  bloom; 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said —  25 

Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago— 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow.  30 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff; 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack  35 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat,  40 

And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer  1 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring,  45 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 
1831  or  1832.  1833. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  379 

THE  COMET 

The  Comet!     He  is  on  his  way, 

And  singing  as  he  flies; 
The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 

The  spectre  of  the  skies: 
Ah,  well  may  regal  orbs  burn  blue,  5 

And  satellites  turn  pale, 
Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head, 

Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail! 

On,  on,  by  whistling  spheres  of  light, 

He  flashes  and  he  flames;  10 

He  turns  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 

He  asks  them  not  their  names: 
One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel — 

Away,  away  they  fly, 
Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up  15 

And  sold  for  "Tyrian  dye." 

And  what  would  happen  to  the  land. 

And  how  would  look  the  sea, 
If  in  the  bearded  devil's  path 

Our  earth  should  chance  to  be  ?  2o 

Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  would  boil, 

Full  red  the  forests  gleam: 
Methought  I  saw  and  heard  it  all 

In  a  dyspeptic  dream  1 

I  saw  a  tutor  take  his  tube  25 

The  Comet's  course  to  spy; 
I  heard  a  scream — the  gathered  rays 

Had  stewed  the  tutor's  eye. 
I  saw  a  fort:  the  soldiers  all 

Were  armed  with  goggles  green;  30 

Pop  cracked  the  guns!  whiz  flew  the  balls! 

Bang  went  the  magazine! 

I  saw  a  poet  dip  a  scroll 

Each  moment  in  a  tub; 

I  read  upon  the  warping  back,  35 

"The  Dream  of  Beelzebub." 


380  AMERICAN  POEMS 


He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn, 

Although  his  brain  was  fried, 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

To  wet  them  as  they  dried.  40 

I  saw  the  scalding  pitch  roll  down 

The  crackling,  sweating  pines, 
And  streams  of  smoke,  like  water-spouts, 

Burst  through  the  rumbling  mines. 
I  asked  the  firemen  why  they  made  45 

Such  noise  about  the  town; 
They  answered  not — but  all  the  while 

The  brakes  went  up  and  down. 

I  saw  a  roasting  pullet  sit 

Upon  a  baking  egg;  50 

I  saw  a  cripple  scorch  his  hand 

Extinguishing  his  leg; 
I  saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 

Towards  the  frozen  pole, 
And  every  mother's  gosling  fell  55 

Crisped  to  a  crackling  coal. 

I  saw  the  ox  that  browsed  the  grass 

Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays; 
The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 

Was  all  a  fiery  blaze.  60 

I  saw  huge  fishes,  boiled  to  rags, 

Bob  through  the  bubbling  brine; 
And  thoughts  of  supper  crossed  my  soul — 

I  had  been  rash  at  mine. 

Strange  sights!  strange  sounds!  O  fearful 

dream  1  65 

Its  memory  haunts  me  still — 
The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare 

That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill. 
Stranger,  if  through  thy  reeling  brain 

Such  midnight  visions  sweep,  70 

Spare,  spare,  O,  spare  thine  evening  meal, 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  sleep! 

t836. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  381 

FROM 

URANIA 

A   RHYMED   LESSON 

Be  firm!    One  constant  element  in  luck 

Is  genuine,  solid,  old  Teutonic  pluck. 

See  yon  tall  shaft:  it  felt  the  earthquake's  thrill, 

Clung  to  its  base,  and  greets  the  sunrise  still. 

Stick  to  your  aim:  the  mongrel's  hold  will  slip,  5 

But  only  crowbars  loose  the  bulldog's  grip; 
Small  as  he  looks,  the  jaw  that  never  yields 
Drags  down  the  bellowing  monarch  of  the  fields. 

Yet  in  opinions  look  not  always  back; 

Your  wake  is  nothing — mind  the  coming  track:  10 

Leave  what  you  Ve  done  for  what  you  have  to  do; 
Don't  be  "consistent,"  but  be  simply  true. 

Don't  catch  the  fidgets:  you  have  found  your  place 
Just  in  the  focus  of  a  nervous  race, 

Fretful  to  change  and  rabid  to  discuss,  15 

Full  of  excitements,  always  in  a  fuss. 
Think  of  the  patriarchs;  then  compare  as  men 
These  lean-cheeked  maniacs  of  the  tongue  and  pen ! 
Run,  if  you  like,  but  try  to  keep  your  breath; 
Work  like  a  man,  but  don't  be  worked  to  death;  20 

And  with  new  notions — let  me  change  the  rule — 
Don't  strike  the  iron  till  it  *s  slightly  cool. 
1846?  1849. 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main; 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings  5 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 
Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl  1 
And  every  chambered  cell,  10 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil  15 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil: 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door,  20 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn! 

From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born  25 

Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn; 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that  sings: 

1  Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll!  30 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea!"  35 

1858. 

THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE 

OR   THE   WONDERFUL   "ONE-HOSS   SHAY" 

A  Logical  Story 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it — ah,  but  stay, 
I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, —  5 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 383 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five; 

Georglus  Secundus  was  then  alive —  10 

Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive; 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown.  15 

It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 
Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what. 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill,  20 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace— lurking  still; 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without; 

And  that  's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt,  25 

A  chaise  breaks  down  but  doesn't  wear  otit. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "I  dew  vum"  or  an  "I  tell  yeou") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
V  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun';  30 

It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn'  break  daown: 
'  Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest  35 

T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  couldn't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke — 
That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills;  40 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills; 
The  cross  bars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees; 
The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "Settler's  ellum"  45 

(Last  of  its  timber — they  couldn't  sell  'em; 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips. 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips); 


384  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw,  5C 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 

Thoroughbrace,  bison-skin  thick  and  wide; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 

Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died:  55 

That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." 
"There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she  '11  dew!" 
Do!    I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray,  6O 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren — where  were  they  ? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED;  it  came  and  found  65 

The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 

Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten; 
"Hahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 

Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came; 

Running  as  usual,  much  the  same.  70 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive; 

And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 
Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer.  75 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 
So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large: 

Take  it;  you  're  welcome — no  extra  charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER — the  Earthquake-day;  8c 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 
There  couldn't  be,  for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part  85 

That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start; 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more,  90 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  385 

And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt, 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five!  95 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive: 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  wayl 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-boss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"Huddup!"  said  the  parson;  off  went  they.  loo 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text; 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill:  105 

First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 
At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock, 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  1  no 

What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce,  115 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, 
All  at  once  and  nothing  first, 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-boss  shay. 

Logic  is  logic.    That 's  all  I  say.  I20 

1858. 

"THE  BOYS" 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys  ? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  noise. 
Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Catalogue's  spite! 
Old  Time  is  a  liar!    We  're  twenty  to-nightl 

We 're  twenty!    We 're  twenty!    Who  says  we  are  more ?  5 

He  's  tipsy — young  jackanapes! — show  him  the  door! 
'Gray  temples  at  twenty?" — Yes!  white  if  we  please; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there  's  nothing  can  freeze! 


386  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?     Excuse  the  mistake  1 

Look  close — you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake!  10 

We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have  shed, 

And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We  Ve  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have  been  told, 

Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old: 

That  boy  we  call  "Doctor,"  and  this  we  call  "Judge";  15 

It  's  a  neat  little  fiction — of  course  it  's  all  fudge. 

That  fellow  's  the  "Speaker" — the  one  on  the  right; 
'Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night? 
That  's  our  "Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when  we  chaff; 
There  's  the  "Reverend"  What  's-his-name? — don't  make 

me  laugh.  20 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 
And  the  ROYAL  SOCIETY  thought  it  was  true! 
So  they  chose  him  right  in;  a  good  joke  it  was,  tool 

There  's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker  brain,  25 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain; 

When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire, 

We  called  him  "The  Justice,"  but  now  he  's  "The  Squire." 

And  there  's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith: 

Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith;  30 

But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free — 

Just  read  on  his  medal,  "My  country"  "of  theel" 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing?     You  think  he  's  all  fun; 

But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done. 

The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call,  35 

And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest  of  all! 

Yes,  we  're  boys — always  playing  with  tongue  or  with  pen; 

And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  "  Shall  we  ever  be  men  ? 

Shall  we  always  be  youthful  and  laughing  and  gay, 

Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away?"  40 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  387 


Then  here  's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children  THE  BOYS! 
1859.  1859. 

HYMN  OF  TRUST 

O  Love  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 

Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear, 
On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care, 

We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art  near. 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread  5 

And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering  year, 
No  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread, 

Our  hearts  still  whispering  Thou  art  near. 

When  drooping  pleasure  turns  to  grief 

And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to  fear,  10 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering  leaf 

Shall  softly  tell  us  Thou  art  near. 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 

O  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 
Content  to  suffer  while  we  know,  15 

Living  and  dying,  Thou  art  near. 

1859. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

OUR  LOVE  IS  NOT  A  FADING,  EARTHLY  FLOWER 

Our  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower: 

Its  winged  seed  dropped  down  from  Paradise, 

And,  nursed  by  day  and  night,  by  sun  and  shower, 

Doth  momently  to  fresher  beauty  rise. 

To  us  the  leafless  autumn  is  not  bare, 

Nor  winter's  rattling  boughs  lack  lusty  green; 

Our  summer  hearts  make  summer's  fulness  where 

No  leaf  or  bud  or  blossom  may  be  seen: 


388  AMERICAN  POEMS 


For  nature's  life  in  love's  deep  life  doth  lie — 

Love,  whose  forgetfulness  is  beauty's  death,  10 

Whose  mystic  key  these  cells  of  Thou  and  I 

Into  the  infinite  freedom  openeth, 

And  makes  the  body's  dark  and  narrow  grate 

The  wide-flung  leaves  of  Heaven's  palace-gate. 

1843. 
WENDELL  PHILLIPS 

He  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  threshold:  wide 

The  din  of  battle  and  of  slaughter  rose; 

He  saw  God  stand  upon  the  weaker  side, 

That  sank  in  seeming  loss  before  its  foes. 

Many  there  were  who  made  great  haste  and  sold  5 

Unto  the  cunning  enemy  their  swords; 

He  scorned  their  gifts  of  fame  and  power  and  gold, 

And,  underneath  their  soft  and  flowery  words, 

Heard  the  cold  serpent  hiss:  therefore  he  went 

And  humbly  joined  him  to  the  weaker  part,  10 

Fanatic  named,  and  fool,  yet  well  content 

So  he  could  be  the  nearer  to  God's  heart, 

And  feel  its  solemn  pulses  sending  blood 

Through  all  the  wide-spread  veins  of  endless  good. 

1843- 
RHCECUS 

God  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age, 

To  every  clime,  and  every  race  of  men, 

With  revelations  fitted  to  their  growth 

And  shape  of  mind,  nor  giv.es  the  realm  of  Truth 

Into  the  selfish  rule  of  one  sole  race:  5 

Therefore  each  form  of  worship  that  hath  swayed 

The  life  of  man,  and  given  it  to  grasp 

The  master-key  of  knowledge,  reverence, 

Enfolds  some  germs  of  goodness  and  of  right; 

Else  never  had  the  eager  soul,  which  loathes  10 

The  slothful  down  of  pampered  ignorance, 

Found  in  it  even  a  moment's  fitful  rest. 

There  is  an  instinct  in  the  human  heart 
Which  makes  that  all  the  fables  it  hath  coined, 
To  justify  the  reign  of  its  belief  15 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  389 

And  strengthen  it  by  beauty's  right  divine, 

Veil  in  their  inner  cells  a  mystic  gift, 

Which,  like  the  hazel  twig,  in  faithful  hands 

Points  surely  to  the  hidden  springs  of  truth; 

For  as  in  nature  naught  is  made  in  vain,  20 

But  all  things  have  within  their  hull  of  use 

A  wisdom  and  a  meaning  which  may  speak 

Of  spiritual  secrets  to  the  ear 

Of  spirit,  so,  in  whatsoe'er  the  heart 

Hath  fashioned  for  a  solace  to  itself,  35 

To  make  its  inspirations  suit  its  creed 

And  from  the  niggard  hands  of  falsehood  wring 

Its  needful  food  of  truth,  there  ever  is 

A  sympathy  with  Nature,  which  reveals, 

Not  less  than  her  own  works,  pure  gleams  of  light  30 

And  earnest  parables  of  inward  lore. 

Hear  now  this  fairy  legend  of  old  Greece, 

As  full  of  freedom,  youth,  and  beauty  still 

As  the  immortal  freshness  of  that  grace 

Carved  for  all  ages  on  some  Attic  frieze.  35 

A  youth  named  Rhcecus,  wandering  in  the  wood, 
Saw  an  old  oak  just  trembling  to  its  fall; 
And,  feeling  pity  of  so  fair  a  tree, 
He  propped  its  gray  trunk  with  admiring  care. 
And  with  a  thoughtless  footstep  loitered  on.  40 

But  as  he  turned  he  heard  a  voice  behind 
That  murmured  "Rhcecus!"     T  was  as  if  the  leaves, 
Stirred  by  a  passing  breath,  had  murmured  it; 
And  while  he  paused,  bewildered,  yet  again 
It  murmured  "Rhcecus!"  softer  than  a  breeze.  45 

He  started,  and  beheld  with  dizzy  eyes 
What  seemed  the  substance  of  a  happy  dream 
Stand  there  before  him,  spreading  a  warm  glow 
Within  the  green  glooms  of  the  shadowy  oak: 
It  seemed  a  woman's  shape,  yet  all  too  fair  50 

To  be  a  woman,  and  with  eyes  too  meek 
For  any  that  were  wont  to  mate  with  gods; 
All  naked  like  a  goddess  stood  she  there, 
And  like  a  goddess  all  too  beautiful 

To  feel  the  guilt-bom  earthliness  of  shame.  55 

"Rhcecus,  I  am  the  Dryad  of  this  tree:" 


3QO  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Thus  she  began,  dropping  her  low-toned  words 

Serene  and  full  and  clear  as  drops  of  dew; 
"And  with  it  I  am  doomed  to  live  and  die: 

The  rain  and  sunshine  are  my  caterers,  60 

Nor  have  I  other  bliss  than  simple  life. 

Now  ask  me  what  thou  wilt,  that  I  can  give, 

And  with  a  thankful  joy  it  shall  be  thine." 

Then  Rhcecus,  with  a  flutter  at  the  heart, 

Yet,  by  the  prompting  of  such  beauty,  bold,  65 

Answered:  "What  is  there  that  can  satisfy 

The  endless  craving  of  the  soul  but  love  ? 

Give  me  thy  love,  or  but  the  hope  of  that 

Which  must  be  evermore  my  spirit's  goal." 

After  a  little  pause  she  said  again,  7o 

But  with  a  glimpse  of  sadness  in  her  tone, 
"I  give  it,  Rhcecus,  though  a  perilous  gift; 

An  hour  before  the  sunset  meet  me  here." 

And  straightway  there  was  nothing  he  could  see 

But  the  green  glooms  beneath  the  shadowy  oak,  75 

And  not  a  sound  came  to  his  straining  ears 

But  the  low  trickling  rustle  of  the  leaves 

And,  far  away  upon  an  emerald  slope, 

The  falter  of  an  idle  shepherd's  pipe. 

Now,  in  those  days  of  simpleness  and  faith  80 

Men  did  not  think  that  happy  things  were  dreams 

Because  they  overstepped  the  narrow  bourne 

Of  likelihood,  but  reverently  deemed 

Nothing  too  wondrous  or  too  beautiful 

To  be  the  guerdon  of  a  daring  heart.  85 

So  Rhcecus  made  no  doubt  that  he  was  blest; 

And  all  along  unto  the  city's  gate 

Earth  seemed  to  spring  beneath  him  as  he  walked, 

The  clear,  broad  sky  looked  bluer  than  its  wont, 

And  he  could  scarce  believe  he  had  not  wings  go 

Such  sunshine  seemed  to  glitter  through  his  veins 

Instead  of  blood,  so  light  he  felt  and  strange. 
Young  Rhcecus  had  a  faithful  heart  enough, 

But  one  that  in  the  present  dwelt  too  much, 

And,  taking  with  blithe  welcome  whatsoe'er  95 

Chance  gave  of  joy,  was  wholly  bound  in  that; 

Like  the  contented  peasant  of  a  vale, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  391 

Deemed  it  the  world  and  never  looked  beyond. 

So,  haply  meeting  in  the  afternoon 

Some  comrades  who  were  playing  at  the  dice,  100 

He  joined  them  and  forgot  all  else  beside. 

The  dice  were  rattling  at  the  merriest, 
And  Rhcecus,  who  had  met  but  sorry  luck, 
Just  laughed  in  triumph  at  a  happy  throw, 
When  through  the  room  there  hummed  a  yellow  bee          105 
That  buzzed  about  his  ear  with  down-dropped  legs 
As  if  to  light.     And  Rhcecus  laughed  and  said, 
Feeling  how  red  and  flushed  he  was  with  loss, 
'By  Venus!  does  he  take  me  for  a  rose?" 
And  brushed  him  off  with  rough,  impatient  hand.  no 

But  still  the  bee  came  back,  and  thrice  again 
Rhcecus  did  beat  him  off  with  growing  wrath. 
Then  through  the  window  flew  the  wounded  bee; 
And  Rhcecus,  tracking  him  with  angry  eyes, 
Saw  a  sharp  mountain-peak  of  Thessaly  1 1 5 

Against  the  red  disc  of  the  setting  sun, — 
And  instantly  the  blood  sank  from  his  heart, 
As  if  its  very  walls  had  caved  away. 
Without  a  word  he  turned,  and,  rushing  forth, 
Ran  madly  through  the  city  and  the  gate,  1 20 

And  o'er  the  plain,  which  now  the  wood's  long  shade, 
By  the  low  sun  thrown  forward  broad  and  dim, 
Darkened  well-nigh  unto  the  city's  wall. 

Quite  spent  and  out  of  breath,  he  reached  the  tree, 
And,  listening  fearfully,  he  heard  once  more  125 

The  low  voice  murmur  "Rhcecusl"  close  at  hand; 
Whereat  he  looked  around  him,  but  could  see 
Nought  but  the  deepening  glooms  beneath  the  oak. 
Then  sighed  the  voice,  "Oh  Rhcecus,  nevermore 
Shalt  thou  behold  me  or  by  day  or  night!  130 

Me,  who  would  fain  have  blessed  thee  with  a  love 
More  ripe  and  bounteous  than  ever  yet 
Filled  up  with  nectar  any  mortal  heart: 
But  thou  didst  scorn  my  humble  messenger, 
And  sent'st  him  back  to  me  with  bruised  wings.  135 

We  spirits  only  show  to  gentle  eyes; 
We  ever  ask  an  undivided  love; 
And  he  who  scorns  the  least  of  Nature's  works 


392  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Is  thenceforth  exiled  and  shut  out  from  all. 

Farewell  I  for  thou  canst  never  see  me  more."  140 

Then  Rhcecus  beat  his  breast,  and  groaned  aloud, 
And  cried,  "Be  pitiful!   forgive  me  yet 
This  once,  and  I  shall  never  need  it  more!" 
"Alas!"  the  voice  returned,  "'t  is  thou  art  blind, 
Not  I  unmerciful:  I  can  forgive,  I4S 

But  have  no  skill  to  heal  thy  spirit's  eyes; 
Only  the  soul  hath  power  o'er  itself." 
With  that  again  there  murmured  "Nevermore!" 
And  Rhcecus  after  heard  no  other  sound, 
Except  the  rattling  of  the  oak's  crisp  leaves,  150 

Like  the  long  surf  upon  a  distant  shore 
Raking  the  sea-worn  pebbles  up  and  down. 
The  night  had  gathered  round  him:  o'er  the  plain 
The  city  sparkled  with  its  thousand  lights, 
And  sounds  of  revel  fell  upon  his  ear  155 

Harshly  and  like  a  curse;  above,  the  sky, 
With  all  its  bright  sublimity  of  stars, 
Deepened,  and  on  his  forehead  smote  the  breeze. 
Beauty  was  all  around  him,  and  delight; 
But  from  that  eve  he  was  alone  on  earth.  160 

1843- 

TO  THE  DANDELION 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they  5 

An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 
Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 

May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 

Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow  10 

Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease: 

T  is  the  spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  393 

To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand,  15 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 

To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 

The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime;  20 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time: 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent,  25 

His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I  when  first 

From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass; 
Of  meadows  where  in  the  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass,  30 

The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways; 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind;  of  waters  blue 
That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 

Some  woodland  gap;  and  of  a  sky  above,  35 

Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee: 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long;  40 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers.  45 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam  50 


394  AMERICAN  POEM'S 

Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 

And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 

On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

1845. 

FROM 

THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS 

NO.    I 

Thrash  away!  you  '11  hev  to  rattle 

On  them  kittle-drums  o'  yourn — 
T  aint  a  knowin'  kind  o'  cattle 

Thet  is  ketched  with  mouldy  corn. 
Put  in  stiff,  you  fifer  feller,  5 

Let  folks  see  how  spry  you  be — 
Guess  you  '11  toot  till  you  are  yeller 

'Fore  you  git  ahold  o'  me. 

Thet  air  flag  's  a  leetle  rotten; 

Hope  it  aint  your  Sunday's  best.  10 

Factl  it  takes  a  sight  o'  cotton 

To  stuff  out  a  soger's  chest: 
Sence  we  farmers  hev  to  pay  fer  't, 

Ef  you  must  wear  humps  like  these 
Sposin*  you  should  try  salt  hay  fer  't —  15 

It  would  du  ez  slick  ez  grease. 

'T  wouldn't  suit  them  Southun  fellers; 

They  're  a  dreffle  graspin'  set: 
We  must  oilers  blow  the  bellers 

Wen  they  want  their  irons  het.  20 

May  be  it  's  all  right  ez  preachin', 

But  my  narves  it  kind  o'  grates 
Wen  I  see  the  overreachin' 

O'  them  nigger-drivin'  States. 

Them  thet  rule  us,  them  slave-traders,  25 

Haint  they  cut  a  thunderin'  swarth 

(Helped  by  Yankee  renegaders) 
Thru  the  vartu  o'  the  North  I 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 395 

We  begin  to  think  it 's  nater 

To  take  sarse  an'  not  be  riled:  3° 

Who  'd  expect  to  see  a  tater 

All  on  eend  at  bein'  biled  ? 

Ez  fer  war,  I  call  it  murder — 

There  you  hev  it  plain  an'  flat; 
I  don't  want  to  go  no  furder  35 

Than  my  Testyment  fer  that: 
God  hez  sed  so  plump  an'  fairly; 

It 's  ez  long  ez  it  is  broad; 
An'  you  've  gut  to  git  up  airly 

Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God.  4° 

T  aint  your  eppyletts  an*  feathers 

Make  the  thing  a  grain  more  right; 
T  aint  afollerin'  your  bell-wethers 

Will  excuse  ye  in  His  sight: 
Ef  you  take  a  sword  an'  dror  it  45 

An'  go  stick  a  feller  thru, 
Guv'ment  aint  to  answer  for  it — 

God  '11  send  the  bill  to  you. 

Wut  's  the  use  o'  meetin'-goin' 

Every  Sabbath,  wet  or  dry,  5° 

Ef  it  's  right  to  go  amowin' 

Feller-men  like  oats  an*  rye  ? 
I  dunno  but  wut  it  's  pooty 

Trainin'  round  in  bobtail  coats, 
But  it  's  curus  Christian  dooty  55 

This  'ere  cuttin'  folks's  throats. 

They  may  talk  o'  Freedom's  airy 

Tell  they  're  pupple  in  the  face — 
It  's  a  grand  gret  cemetary 

Fer  the  barthrights  of  our  race:  60 

They  jest  want  this  Californy 

So  's  to  lug  new  slave-states  in, 
To  abuse  ye  an*  to  scorn  ye 

An'  to  plunder  ye  like  sin. 


396  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Aint  it  cute  to  see  a  Yankee  55 

Take  sech  everlastin'  pains, 
All  to  git  the  Devil's  thankee 

Helpin'  on  'em  weld  their  chains  ? 
Wy,  it  's  jest  ez  clear  ez  figgers, 

Clear  ez  one  an'  one  make  two:  7o 

Chaps  thet  make  black  slaves  o'  niggers 

Want  to  make  wite  slaves  o'  you. 

Tell  ye  jest  the  eend  I  Ve  come  to 

Arter  cipherin'  plaguy  smart, 
An'  it  makes  a  handy  sum,  tu,  ye 

Any  gump  could  larn  by  heart: 
Laborin'  man  an'  laborin'  woman 

Hev  one  glory  an'  one  shame; 
Ev'y  thin'  thet 's  done  inhuman 

Injers  all  on  'em  the  same.  30 

T  aint  by  turnin'  out  to  hack  folks 

You  're  agoin'  to  git  your  right, 
Nor  by  lookin'  down  on  black  folks 

Coz  you  're  put  upon  by  wite: 
Slavery  aint  o'  nary  color,  gs 

'T  aint  the  hide  thet  makes  it  wus; 
All  it  keers  fer  in  a  feller 

'S  jest  to  make  him  fill  its  pus. 

Want  to  tackle  me  in,  du  ye  ? 

I  expect  you  '11  hev  to  wait;  QO 

Wen  cold  lead  puts  daylight  thru  ye 

You  '11  begin  to  kal'late: 
'Spose  the  crows  wun't  fall  to  pickin' 

All  the  carkiss  from  your  bones 
Coz  you  helped  to  give  a  lickin'  g5 

To  them  poor  half-Spanish  drones? 

Jest  go  home  an*  ask  our  Nancy 

Wether  I  'd  be  sech  a  goose 
Ez  to  jine  ye— guess  you  'd  fancy 

The  etarnal  bung  wuz  loose!  IOp 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  397 

She  wants  me  fer  home  consumption, 

Let  alone  the  hay  's  to  mow. 
Ef  you  're  arter  folks  o'  gumption, 

You  've  a  darned  long  row  to  hoe. 

Take  them  editors  thet  's  crowin'  105 

Like  a  cockerel  three  months  old — 
Don't  ketch  any  on  'em  goin* 

Though  they  be  so  blasted  bold. 
Aint  they  a  prime  lot  o'  fellers? 

'Fore  they  think  on  't  they  will  sprout  no 

(Like  a  peach  thet  's  got  the  yellers) 

With  the  meanness  bustin'  out. 

Wai,  go  'long  to  help  'em  stealin' 

Bigger  pens  to  cram  with  slavesl 
Help  the  men  thet  's  oilers  dealin'  115 

Insults  on  your  fathers'  graves  I 
Help  the  strong  to  grind  the  feeble, 

Help  the  many  agin  the  few! 
Help  the  men  thet  call  your  people 

Witewashed  slaves  an'  peddlin'  crew!  120 

Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her, 

She  's  akneelin'  with  the  rest, 
She  thet  ough'  to  ha'  clung  ferever 

In  her  grand  old  eagle-nest; 
She  thet  ough'  to  stand  so  fearless  125 

Wile  the  wracks  are  round  her  hurled, 
Holdin'  up  a  beacon  peerless 

To  the  oppressed  of  all  the  world. 

Haint  they  sold  your  colored  seamen  ? 

Haint  they  made  your  env'ys  wiz  ?  130 

Wut  '11  make  ye  act  like  freemen  ? 

Wut  '11  git  your  dander  riz  ? 
Come,  I  '11  tell  ye  wut  I  'm  thinkin' 

Is  our  dooty  in  this  fix — 
They  'd  ha'  done  't  ez  quick  ez  winkin*  135 

In  the  days  o'  seventy-six: 


398  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Clang  the  bells  in  every  steeple; 

Call  all  true  men  to  disown 
The  tradoocers  of  our  people, 

The  enslavers  o'  their  own;  140 

Let  our  dear  old  Bay  State  proudly 

Put  the  trumpet  to  her  mouth, 
Let  her  ring  this  messidge  loudly 

In  the  ears  of  all  the  South: 

"I  '11  return  ye  good  fer  evil  145 

Much  ez  we  frail  mortils  can, 
But  I  wun't  go  help  the  Devil 

Makin'  man  the  cus  o'  man: 
Call  me  coward,  call  me  traiter, 

Jest  ez  suits  your  mean  idees —  150 

Here  I  stand  a  tyrant-hater, 

An'  the  friend  o'  God  an'  Peace!" 

Ef  I  'd  my  way  I  hed  ruther 

We  should  go  to  work  an'  part, 
They  take  one  way,  we  take  t'  other;  155 

Guess  it  wouldn't  break  my  heart: 
Man  hed  ough'  to  put  asunder 

Them  thet  God  has  noways  jined; 
An'  I  shouldn't  gretly  wonder 

Ef  there  's  thousands  o'  my  mind.  160 

1846. 


NO.  II 

This  kind  o'  sogerin'  aint  a  mite  like  our  October  trainin': 

A  chap  could  clear  right  out  from  there  ef  't  only  looked  like  rainin'; 

An'  th'  Cunnles,  tu,  could  kiver  up  their  shappoes  with  bandanners, 

An'  send  the  insines  skootin'  to  the  bar-room  with  their  banners 

(Fear  o'  gittin'  on  'em  spotted) ;  an'  a  feller  could  cry  quarter 

Ef  he  fired  away  his  ramrod  arter  tu  much  rum  an'  water. 

Recollect  wut  fun  we  hed,  you  'n'  I  an'  Ezry  Hollis, 

Up  there  to  Waltham  plain  last  fall,  along  o'  the  Cornwallis  ? 

This  sort  o'  thing  aint  jest  like  thet — I  wish  thet  I  wuz  f  urder — 

Nimepunce  a  day  fer  killin'  folks  comes  kind  o'  low  fer  murder 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  399 

(Wy  I  've  worked  out  to  slarterin'  some  fer  Deacon  Cephas  Billins, 
An'  in  the  hardest  times  there  wuz  I  oilers  tetched  ten  shillins) : 
There  's  sutthin'  gits  into  my  throat  thet  makes  it  hard  to  swaller, 
It  comes  so  nateral  to  think  about  a  hempen  collar; 
It  's  glory — but  in  spite  o'  all  my  tryin'  to  git  callous,  15 

I  feel  a  kind  o'  in  a  cart,  aridin'  to  the  gallus. 

But  wen  it  comes  to  bein'  killed— I  tell  ye  I  felt  streaked 
The  fust  time  't  ever  I  found  out  wy  baggonets  wuz  peaked. 
Here  's  how  it  wuz:  I  started  out  to  go  to  a  fandango; 
The  sentinul  he  ups  an'  sez,  "Thet  's  furder  'an  you  can  go."  20 

'None  o'  your  sarse,"  sez  I;   sez  he,  "Stan'  back!"     "Aint  you  a 

buster  ?  " 

Sez  I;  "I  'm  up  to  all  thet  air,  I  guess  I  Ve  ben  to  muster; 
I  know  wy  sentinuls  air  sot;  you  aint  agoin'  to  eat  us. 
Caleb  haint  no  monopoly  to  court  the  seenoreetas; 

My  folks  to  hum  air  full  ez  good  ez  hisn  be,  by  golly  I"  25 

An'  so  ez  I  wuz  goin'  by,  not  thinkin'  wut  would  folly, 
The  everlastin'  cus  he  stuck  his  one-pronged  pitch-fork  in  me, 
An'  made  a  hole  right  thru  my  close,  ez  ef  I  wuz  an  in'my. 
Wai,  it  beats  all  how  big  I  felt  hoorawin'  in  ole  Funnel 
Wen  Mister  Bolles  he  gin  the  sword  to  our  Leftenant  Cunnle  30 

(It 's  Mister  Secondary  Bolles,  thet  writ  the  prize  peace  essay; 
Thet 's  wy  he  didn't  list  himself  along  o'  us,  I  dessay). 
An'  Rantoul,  tu,  talked  pooty  loud,  but  don't  put  his  foot  in  it, 
Coz  human  life  's  so  sacred  thet  he  's  principled  agin  it — 
Though  I  myself  can't  rightly  see  it 's  any  wus  achokin'  on  'em  35 

Than  puttin'  bullets  thru  their  lights  or  with  a  bagnet  pokin'  on  'em: 
How  dreffle  slick  he  reeled  it  off  (like  Blitz  at  our  lyceum 
Ahaulin'  ribbins  from  his  chops  so  quick  you  skeercely  see  'em) 
About  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  (an'  saxons  would  be  handy 
To  du  the  buryin'  down  here  upon  the  Rio  Grandy),  40 

About  our  patriotic  pas  an'  our  star-spangled  banner, 
Our  country's  bird  alookin'  on  an'  singin'  out  hosanner, 
Anr  how  he  (Mister  B.  himself)  wuz  happy  fer  Ameriky. 
I  felt,  ez  sister  Patience  sez,  a  leetle  mite  histericky; 
I  felt,  I  swon,  ez  though  it  wuz  a  dreffle  kind  o'  privilege,  45 

Atrampin'  round  thru  Boston  streets  among  the  gutter's  drivelage; 
I  act'lly  thought  it  wuz  a  treat  to  hear  a  little  drummin'; 
An'  it  did  bonyfidy  seem  millanyum  wuz  acomin' 
Wen  all  on  us  got  suits  (darned  like  them  wore  in  the  state  prison) 
An'  every  feller  felt  ez  though  all  Mexico  wuz  hisn.  50 


400  AMERICAN  POEMS 


This  'ere  's  about  the  meanest  place  a  skunk  could  wal  diskiver 
(Saltillo  's  Mexican,  I  b'lieve,  fer  wut  we  call  Salt-river). 
The  sort  o'  trash  a  feller  gits  to  eat  doos  beat  all  nater; 
I  'd  give  a  year's  pay  fer  a  smell  o'  one  good  blue-nose  tater. 
The  country  here,  thet  Mister  Bolles  declared  to  be  so  charmin',  55 

Throughout  is  swarmin'  with  the  most  alarmin'  kind  o'  varmin. 
He  talked  about  delishis  f roots,  but  then  it  wuz  a  wopper  all; 
The  holl  on  't  's  mud  an'  prickly  pears,  with  here  an'  there  a  chapparal. 
You  see  a  feller  peekin'  out,  an'  fust  you  know  a  lariat 
Is  round  your  throat  an'  you  a  copse  'fore  you  can  say,  "Wut  air  ye 

at?"  60 

You  never  see  sech  darned  gret  bugs  (it  may  not  be  irrelevant 
To  say  I  've  seen  a  scarabaus  pilularius  big  ez  a  year-old  elephant) : 
The  rigiment  come  up  one  day  in  time  to  stop  a  red  bug 
From  runnin'  off  with  Cunnle  Wright — 't  wuz  jest  a  common  cimex 

lectularius. 

One  night  I  started  up  on  eend  an'  thought  I  wuz  to  hum  agin:  65 

I  heern  a  horn;  thinks  I,  "It 's  Sol  the  fisherman  hez  come  agin; 
His  bellowses  is  sound  enough" — ez  I  'm  a  livin'  creeter, 
I  felt  a  thing  go  thru  my  leg — 't  wuz  nothin'  more  'n  a  skeeter. 
Then  there  's  the  yaller  fever,  tu;  they  call  it  here  el  vomito. 
(Come,  thet  wun't  du,  you  landcrab  there,  I  tell  ye  to  le'  go  my  toe!      70 
My  gracious!  it 's  a  scorpion  thet 's  took  a  shine  to  play  with  't; 
I  darsn't  skeer  the  tarnal  thing  fer  fear  he  'd  run  away  with  't.) 

Afore  I  come  away  from  hum  I  bed  a  strong  persuasion 
Thet  Mexicans  worn't  human  beans — an  ourang  outang  nation, 
A  sort  o'  folks  a  chap  could  kill  an'  never  dream  on  't  arter,  75 

No  more  'n  a  feller  'd  dream  o'  pigs  thet  he  hed  hed  to  slarter; 
I  'd  an  idee  thet  they  were  built  arter  the  darkie  fashion  all, 
An'  kickin'  colored  folks  about,  you  know,  's  a  kind  o'  national. 
But  wen  I  jined  I  wornt  so  wise  ez  thet  air  queen  o'  Sheby, 
Fer,  come  to  look  at  'em,  they  aint  much  diff'rent  from  wut  we  be;        80 
An*  here  we  air  ascrougin'  'em  out  o'  thir  own  dominions, 
Ashelterin'  'em,  ez  Caleb  sez,  under  our  eagle's  pinions — 
Wich  means  to  take  a  feller  up  jest  by  the  slack  o'  's  trowsis 
An'  walk  him  Spanish  clean  right  out  o'  all  his  homes  an'  houses. 
Wal,  it  doos  seem  a  curus  way,  but  then  hooraw  fer  Jackson  1  85 

It  must  be  right,  fer  Caleb  sez  it 's  reg'lar  Anglo-saxon. 
The  Mex'cans  don't  fight  fair,  they  say:  they  piz'n  all  the  water, 
An'  du  amazin'  lots  o'  things  thet  isn't  wut  they  ough'  to; 
Bein'  they  haint  no  lead,  they  make  their  bullets  out  o'  copper 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  401 

An'  shoot  the  darned  things  at  us,  tu,  wich  Caleb  sez  aint  proper;  90 

He  sez  they  'd  ough'  to  stan'  right  up  an'  let  us  pop  'em  fairly 

(Guess  wen  he  ketches  'em  at  thet  he  '11  hev  to  git  up  airly); 

Thet  our  nation  's  bigger  'n  theirn  an'  so  its  rights  air  bigger, 

An'  thet  it  's  all  to  make  'em  free  thet  we  air  pullin'  trigger; 

Thet  Anglo  Saxondom's  idee  's  abreakin*  'em  to  pieces,  95 

An'  thet  idee  's  thet  every  man  doos  jest  wut  he  damn  pleases. 

Ef  I  don't  make  his  meanin'  clear,  perhaps  in  some  respex  I  can — 

I  know  thet  "every  man"  don't  mean  a  nigger  or  a  Mexican. 

An'  there  's  another  thing  I  know,  an*  thet  is,  ef  these  creeturs 

Thet  stick  an  Anglosaxon  mask  onto  State-prison  feeturs  100 

Should  come  to  Jaalam  Centre  fer  to  argify  an'  spout  on  % 

The  gals  'ould  count  the  silver  spoons  the  minnit  they  cleared  out  on  't. 

This  goin'  ware  glory  waits  ye  haint  one  agreeable  feetur, 
An'  ef  it  worn't  fer  wakin'  snakes  I  'd  home  agin  short  meter: 
O,  wouldn't  I  be  off,  quick  time,  ef 't  worn't  thet  I  wuz  sartin  105 

They  'd  let  the  daylight  into  me  to  pay  me  fer  desartinl 
I  don't  approve  o'  tellin'  tales,  but  jest  to  you  I  may  state 
Our  ossifers  aint  wut  they  wuz  afore  they  left  the  Bay-state: 
Then  it  wuz  "  Mister  Sawin,  sir,  you  're  middlin'  well  now,  be  ye  ? 
Step  up  an'  take  a  nipper,  sir;  I  'm  dreffle  glad  to  see  ye";  no 

But  now  it 's  "Ware  's  my  eppylet ?  here,  Sawin,  step  an*  fetch  it! 
An'  mind  your  eye,  be  thund'rin'  spry,  or,  damn  ye,  you  shall  ketch  it!" 
Wai,  ez  the  Doctor  sez,  some  pork  will  bile  so;  but,  by  mighty, 
Ef  I  hed  some  on  'em  to  hum  I  'd  give  'em  linkum  vity, 
I  'd  play  the  rogue's  march  on  their  hides  an'  other  music  follerin* —     115 
But  I  must  close  my  letter  here,  fer  one  on  'em  's  ahollerin'. 
These  Anglosaxon  ossifers — wal,  taint  no  use  ajawin', 

I  'm  safe  enlisted  fer  the  war. 

Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDOM  SAWIN. 
1847.  1847. 

AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE 

What  visionary  tints  the  year  puts  on, 
When  falling  leaves  falter  through  motionless  air, 

Or  numbly  cling  and  shiver  to  be  gonel 
How  shimmer  the  low  flats  and  pastures  bare, 

As  with  her  nectar  Hebe  Autumn  fills  5 

The  bowl  between  me  and  those  distant  hills, 
And  smiles,  and  shakes  abroad  her  misty,  tremulous  hair! 


402  AMERICAN  POEMS 


No  more  the  landscape  holds  its  wealth  apart, 
Making  me  poorer  in  my  poverty, 

But  mingles  with  my  senses  and  my  heart:  10 

My  own  projected  spirit  seems  to  me 

In  her  own  reverie  the  world  to  steep; 

'T  is  she  that  waves  to  sympathetic  sleep, 
Moving,  as  she  is  moved,  each  field  and  hill  and  tree. 

How  fuse  and  mix,  with  what  unfelt  degrees,  15 

Clasped  by  the  faint  horizon's  languid  arms, 

Each  into  each,  the  hazy  distances! 
The  softened  season  all  the  landscape  charms; 

Those  hills,  my  native  village  that  embay, 

In  waves  of  dreamier  purple  roll  away,  20 

And  floating  in  mirage  seem  all  the  glimmering  farms. 

Far  distant  sounds  the  hidden  chickadee 
Close  at  my  side;  far  distant  sound  the  leaves; 

The  fields  seem  fields  of  dream,  where  Memory 
Wanders  like  gleaning  Ruth;  and  as  the  sheaves  25 

Of  wheat  and  barley  wavered  in  the  eye 

Of  Boaz  as  the  maiden's  glow  went  by, 
So  tremble  and  seem  remote  all  things  the  sense  receives. 

The  cock's  shrill  trump  that  tells  of  scattered  corn, 
Passed  breezily  on  by  all  his  flapping  mates,  30 

Faint  and  more  faint,  from  barn  to  barn  is  borne, 
Southward,  perhaps  to  far  Magellan's  Straits; 

Dimly  I  catch  the  throb  of  distant  flails; 

Silently  overhead  the  hen-hawk  sails, 
With  watchful,  measuring  eye,  and  for  his  quarry  waits.          35 

The  sobered  robin,  hunger-silent  now, 
Seeks  cedar-berries  blue,  his  autumn  cheer; 

The  squirrel,  on  the  shingly  shagbark's  bough, 
Now  saws,  now  lists  with  downward  eye  and  ear, 

Then  drops  his  nut,  and,  with  a  chipping  bound,  40 

Whisks  to  his  winding  fastness  underground; 
The  clouds  like  swans  drift  down  the  streaming  atmosphere. 

O'er  yon  bare  knoll  the  pointed  cedar  shadows 
Drowse  on  the  crisp,  gray  moss;  the  ploughman's  call 
Creeps  faint  as  smoke  from  black,  fresh-furrowed 

meadows;  45 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  403 

The  single  crow  a  single  caw  lets  fall; 
And  all  around  me  every  bush  and  tree 
Says  Autumn  's  here,  and  Winter  soon  will  be, 
Who  snows  his  soft,  white  sleep  and  silence  over  all. 

The  birch,  most  shy  and  ladylike  of  trees,  50 

Her  poverty,  as  best  she  may,  retrieves, 

And  hints  at  her  foregone  gentilities 
With  some  saved  relics  of  her  wealth  of  leaves; 

The  swamp-oak,  with  his  royal  purple  on, 

Glares  red  as  blood  across  the  sinking  sun,  55 

As  one  who  proudlier  to  a  falling  fortune  cleaves. 

He  looks  a  sachem,  in  red  blanket  wrapt, 
Who,  'mid  some  council  of  the  sad-garbed  whites, 

Erect  and  stern,  in  his  own  memories  lapt, 
With  distant  eye  broods  over  other  sights —  60 

Sees  the  hushed  wood  the  city's  flare  replace, 

The  wounded  turf  heal  o'er  the  railway's  trace, 
And  roams  the  savage  Past  of  his  undwindled  rights. 

The  red-oak,  softer-grained,  yields  all  for  lost, 
And,  with  his  crumpled  foliage  stiff  and  dry,  65 

After  the  first  betrayal  of  the  frost, 
Rebuffs  the  kiss  of  the  relenting  sky; 

The  chestnuts,  lavish  of  their  long-hid  gold, 

To  the  faint  Summer,  beggared  now  and  old, 
Pour  back  the  sunshine  hoarded  'neath  her  favoring  eye.         70 

The  ash  her  purple  drops  forgivingly 
And  sadly,  breaking  not  the  general  hush; 

The  maple-swamps  glow  like  a  sunset  sea, 
Each  leaf  a  ripple  with  its  separate  flush; 

All  round  the  wood's  edge  creeps  the  skirting  blaze  75 

Of  bushes  low,  as  when,  on  cloudy  days, 
Ere  the  rain  fails,  the  cautious  farmer  burns  his  brush. 

O'er  yon  low  wall,  which  guards  one  unkempt  zone, 
Where  vines  and  weeds  and  scrub-oaks  intertwine 

Safe  from  the  plough,  whose  rough,  discordant  stone        80 
Is  massed  to  one  soft  gray  by  lichens  fine, 
The  tangled  blackberry,  crossed  and  recrossed,  weaves 
A  prickly  network  of  ensanguined  leaves; 
Hard  by,  with  coral  beads,  the  prim  black-alders  shine. 


404  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Pillaring  with  flame  this  crumbling  boundary —  85 

Whose  loose  blocks  topple  'neath  the  ploughboy's  foot, 

Who,  with  each  sense  shut  fast  except  the  eye, 
Creeps  close  and  scares  the  jay  he  hoped  to  shoot — 
The  woodbine  up  the  elm's  straight  stem  aspires, 
Coiling  it,  harmless,  with  autumnal  fires;  90 

In  the  ivy's  paler  blaze  the  martyr  oak  stands  mute. 

Below,  the  Charles,  a  stripe  of  nether  sky, 
Now  hid  by  rounded  apple-trees  between, 

Whose  gaps  the  misplaced  sail  sweeps  bellying  by, 
Now  flickering  golden  through  a  woodland  screen,  95 

Then  spreading  out,  at  his  next  turn  beyond, 

A  silver  circle  like  an  inland  pond — 
Slips  seaward  silently  through  marshes  purple  and  green. 

Dear  marshes!  vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes  share,  100 

From  every  season,  drawn  of  shade  and  light, 
Who  sees  in  them  but  levels  brown  and  bare; 

Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters  free 

On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 
For  nature  with  cheap  means  still  works  her  wonders  rare.    105 

In  Spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of  green, 
O'er  which  the  light  winds  run  with  glimmering  feet: 

Here,  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek  unseen, 
There,  darker  growths  o'er  hidden  ditches  meet; 

And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blossoms  crowd,        no 

As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next  breath  to  fleet. 

All  round,  upon  the  river's  slippery  edge, 
Witching  to  deeper  calm  the  drowsy  tide, 

Whispers  and  leans  the  breeze-entangling  sedge;  115 

Through  emerald  glooms  the  lingering  waters  slide, 

Or,  sometimes  wavering,  throw  back  the  sun, 

And  the  stiff  banks  in  eddies  melt  and  run 
Of  dimpling  light,  and  with  the  current  seem  to  glide. 

In  Summer  't  is  a  blithesome  sight  to  see,  120 

As,  step  by  step,  with  measured  swing,  they  pass, 
The  wide-ranked  mowers  wading  to  the  knee, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  405 

Their  sharp  scythes  panting  through  the  thick-set  grass; 
Then,  stretched  beneath  a  rick's  shade  in  a  ring, 
Their  nooning  take,  while  one  begins  to  sing  125 

A  stave  that  droops  and  dies  'neath  the  close  sky  of  brass. 

Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the  bobolink, 
Remembering  duty,  in  mid-quaver  stops 

Just  ere  he  sweeps  o'er  rapture's  tremulous  brink, 
And  'twixt  the  winrows  most  demurely  drops,  130 

A  decorous  bird  of  business,  who  provides 

For  his  brown  mate  and  fledglings  six  besides, 
And  looks  from  right  to  left,  a  farmer  'mid  his  crops. 

Another  change  subdues  them  in  the  Fall, 
But  saddens  not;  they  still  show  merrier  tints,  135 

Though  sober  russet  seems  to  cover  all: 
When  the  first  sunshine  through  their  dewdrops  glints, 

Look  how  the  yellow  clearness,  streamed  across, 

Redeems  with  rarer  hues  the  season's  loss, 
As  Dawn's  feet  there  had  touched  and  left  their  rosy  prints.       1 40 

Or  come  when  sunset  gives  its  freshened  zest, 
Lean  o'er  the  bridge  and  let  the  ruddy  thrill, 

While  the  shorn  sun  swells  down  the  hazy  west, 
Glow  opposite:  the  marshes  drink  their  fill 

And  swoon  with  purple  veins,  then  slowly  fade  145 

Through  pink  to  brown,  as  eastward  moves  the  shade, 
Lengthening  with  stealthy  creep,  of  Simond's  darkening  hill. 

Later,  and  yet  ere  Winter  wholly  shuts, 
Ere  through  the  first  dry  snow  the  runner  grates, 

And  the  loath  cart-wheel  screams  in  slippery  ruts;          150 
While  firmer  ice  the  eager  boy  awaits, 

Trying  each  buckle  and  strap  beside  the  fire, 

And  until  bed-time  plays  with  his  desire, 
Twenty  times  outting  on  and  off  his  new-bought  skates; 

Then,  every  morn,  the  river's  banks  shine  bright  155 

With  smooth  plate-armor,  treacherous  and  frail, 

By  the  frost's  clinking  hammers  forged  at  night; 
'Gainst  which  the  lances  of  the  sun  prevail, 


4o6  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Giving  a  pretty  emblem  of  the  day 

When  guiltier  arms  in  light  shall  melt  away,  160 

And  states  shall  move  free-limbed,  loosed  from  war's 
cramping  mail. 

And  now  those  waterfalls  the  ebbing  river 
Twice  every  day  creates  on  either  side 

Tinkle,  as  through  their  fresh-sparred  grots  they  shiver 
In  grass-arched  channels  to  the  sun  denied;  165 

High  flaps  in  sparkling  blue  the  far-heard  crow; 

The  silvered  flats  gleam  frostily  below; 
Suddenly  drops  the  gull  and  breaks  the  glassy  tide. 

But  crowned  in  turn  by  vying  seasons  three, 
Their  winter  halo  hath  a  fuller  ring:  170 

This  glory  seems  to  rest  immovably — 
The  others  were  too  fleet  and  vanishing; 

When  the  hid  tide  is  at  its  highest  flow, 

O'er  marsh  and  stream  one  breathless  trance  of  snow 
With  brooding  fulness  awes  and  hushes  every  thing.  175 

The  sunshine  seems  blown  off  by  the  bleak  wind, 
As  pale  as  formal  candles  lit  by  day; 

Gropes  to  the  sea  the  river  dumb  and  blind; 
The  brown  ricks,  snow-thatched  by  the  storm  in  play, 

Show  pearly  breakers  combing  o'er  their  lee,  180 

White  crests  as  of  some  just  enchanted  sea, 
Checked  in  their  maddest  leap  and  hanging  poised  midway. 

But  when  the  eastern  blow,  with  rain  aslant, 
From  mid-sea's  prairies'  green  and  rolling  plains 

Drives  in  his  wallowing  herds  of  billows  gaunt,  185 

And  the  roused  Charles  remembers  in  his  veins 

Old  Ocean's  blood  and  snaps  his  gyves  of  frost, 

That  tyrannous  silence  on  the  shores  is  tost 
In  dreary  wreck,  and  crumbling  desolation  reigns. 

Edgewise  or  flat,  in  Druid-like  device,  190 

With  leaden  pools  between  or  gullies  bare, 

The  blocks  lie  strewn,  a  bleak  Stonehenge  of  ice; 
No  life,  no  sound,  to  break  the  grim  despair, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  4°7 

Save  sullen  plunge,  as  through  the  sedges  stiff 
Down  crackles  riverward  some  thaw-sapped  cliff,  195 

Or  when  the  close-wedged  fields  of  ice  crunch  here  and  there. 

But  let  me  turn  from  fancy-pictured  scenes 
To  that  whose  pastoral  calm  before  me  lies: 
Here  nothing  harsh  or  rugged  intervenes; 
The  early  evening  with  her  misty  dyes  200 

Smooths  off  the  ravelled  edges  of  the  nigh, 
Relieves  the  distant  with  her  cooler  sky, 
And  tones  the  landscape  down,  and  soothes  the  wearied  eyes. 

There  gleams  my  native  village,  dear  to  me, 
Though  higher  change's  waves  each  day  are  seen,  205 

Whelming  fields  famed  in  boyhood's  history, 
Sanding  with  houses  the  diminished  green; 
There,  in  red  brick,  which  softening  time  defies, 
Stand  square  and  stiff  the  Muses'  factories; — 
How  with  my  life  knit  up  is  every  well-known  scene!  210 

Flow  on,  dear  river!  not  alone  you  flow 
To  outward  sight,  and  through  your  marshes  wind; 

Fed  from  the  mystic  springs  of  long-ago, 
Your  twin  flows  silent  through  my  world  of  mind. 

Grow  dim,  dear  marshes,  in  the  evening's  gray!  215 

Before  my  inner  sight  ye  stretch  away, 
And  will  forever,  though  these  fleshly  eyes  grow  blind. 

Beyond  that  hillock's  house-bespotted  swell, 
Where  Gothic  chapels  house  the  horse  and  chaise, 

Where  quiet  cits  in  Grecian  temples  dwell,  220 

Where  Coptic  tombs  resound  with  prayer  and  praise, 

Where  dust  and  mud  the  equal  year  divide, 

There  gentle  Allston  lived  and  wrought  and  died, 
Transfiguring- street  and  shop  with  his  illumined  gaze. 

Virgilium  vidi  tantum:  I  have  seen —  225 

But  as  a  boy,  who  looks  alike  on  all — 

That  misty  hair,  that  fine  Undine-like  mien, 
Tremulous  as  down  to  feeling's  faintest  call. 
Ah,  dear  old  homestead!  count  it  to  thy  fame 
That  thither  many  times  the  Painter  came; —  230 

One  elm  yet  bears  his  name,  a  feathery  tree  and  tall. 


4o8  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Swiftly  the  present  fades  in  memory's  glow; 
Our  only  sure  possession  is  the  past: 

The  village  blacksmith  died  a  month  ago, 
And  dim  to  me  the  forge's  roaring  blast;  235 

Soon  fire-new  mediaevals  we  shall  see 

Oust  the  black  smithy  from  its  chestnut-tree, 
And  that  hewn  down,  perhaps — the  bee-hive  green  and  vast. 

How  many  times,  prouder  than  king  on  throne, 
Loosed  from  the  village  school-dame's  A's  and  B's,  240 

Panting  have  I  the  creaky  bellows  blown, 
And  watched  the  pent  volcano's  red  increase, 

Then  paused  to  see  the  ponderous  sledge,  brought  down 

By  that  hard  arm  voluminous  and  brown, 
From  the  white  iron  swarm  its  golden  vanishing  bees.  245 

Dear  native  town!  whose  choking  elms  each  year 
With  eddying  dust  before  their  time  turn  gray, 

Pining  for  rain,  to  me  thy  dust  is  dear; 
It  glorifies  the  eve  of  summer  day, 

And  when  the  westering  sun  half-sunken  burns,  250 

The  mote-thick  air  to  deepest  orange  turns, 
The  westward  horseman  rides  through  clouds  of  gold  away, 

So  palpable  I  've  seen  those  unshorn  few, 
The  six  old  willows  at  the  causey's  end 

(Such  trees  Paul  Potter  never  dreamed  nor  drew),          255 
Through  this  dry  mist  their  checkering  shadows  send, 
Striped,  here  and  there,  with  many  a  long-drawn 

thread, 

Where  streamed  through  leafy  chinks  the  trembling  red, 
Past  which,  in  one  bright  trail,  the  hangbird's  flashes  blend. 

Yes,  dearer  far  thy  dust  than  all  that  e'er,  260 

Beneath  the  awarded  crown  of  victory, 

Gilded  the  blown  Olympic  charioteer; 
Though  lightly  prized  the  ribboned  parchments  three, 

Yet  collegisse  juvat,  I  am  glad 

That  here  what  colleging  was  mine  I  had —  265 

It  linked  another  tie,  dear  native  town,  with  theel 

Nearer  art  thou  than  simply  native  earth, 
My  dust  with  thine  concedes  a  deeper  tie; 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  409 

A  closer  claim  thy  soil  may  well  put  forth, 
Something  of  kindred  more  than  sympathy;  270 

For  in  thy  bounds  I  reverently  laid  away 
That  blinding  anguish  of  forsaken  clay, 
That  title  I  seemed  to  have  in  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 

That  portion  of  my  life  more  choice  to  me 
(Though  brief,  yet  in  itself  so  round  and  whole)  275 

Than  all  the  imperfect  residue  can  be: 
The  Artist  saw  his  statue  of  the  soul 

Was  perfect;  so,  with  one  regretful  stroke, 
The  earthen  model  into  fragments  broke, 

And  without  her  the  impoverished  seasons  roll.  280 

1847.  1847. 

FROM 

A  FABLE  FOR  CRITICS 

O  loved  more  and  more 

Dear  Baystate,  from  whose  rocky  bosom  thy  sons 
Should  suck  milk  strong-will-giving,  brave,  such  as  runs 
In  the  veins  of  old  Graylock — who  is  it  that  dares 
Call  thee  peddler,  a  soul  wrapt  in  bank-books  and  shares  ?  5 

It  is  false!     She 's  a  Poet!     I  see,  as  I  write, 
Along  the  far  railroad  the  steam-snake  glide  white, 
The  cataract-throb  of  her  mill-hearts  I  hear, 
The  swift  strokes  of  trip-hammers  weary  my  ear, 
Sledges  ring  upon  anvils,  through  logs  the  saw  screams,  10 

Blocks  swing  to  their  place,  beetles  drive  home  the  beams: 
It  is  songs  such  as  these  that  she  croons  to  the  din 
Of  her  fast-flying  shuttles,  year  out  and  year  in, 
While  from  earth's  farthest  corner  there  comes  not  a  breeze 
But  wafts  her  the  buzz  of  her  gold-gleaning  bees.  15 

What  though  those  horn  hands  have  as  yet  found  small  time 
For  painting  and  sculpture  and  music  and  rhyme! 
These  will  come  in  due  order;  the  need  that  pressed  sorest 
Was  to  vanquish  the  seasons,  the  ocean,  the  forest, 
To  bridle  and  harness  the  rivers,  the  steam,  20 

Making  that  whirl  her  mill-wheels,  this  tug  in  her  team, 
To  vassal ize  old  tyrant  Winter,  and  make 
Him  delve  surlily  for  her  on  river  and  lake. 
When  this  New  World  was  parted,  she  strove  not  to  shirk 


410  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Her  lot  in  the  heirdom,  the  tough,  silent  Work,  25 

The  hero-share  ever,  from  Herakles  down 

To  Odin,  the  Earth's  iron  sceptre  and  crown. 

Yes,  thou  dear,  noble  Mother!  if  ever  men's  praise 

Could  be  claimed  for  creating  heroical  lays, 

Thou  hast  won  it;  if  ever  the  laurel  divine  30 

Crowned  the  Maker  and  Builder,  that  glory  is  thine. 

Thy  songs  are  right  epic,  they  tell  how  this  rude 

Rock-rib  of  our  earth  here  was  tamed  and  subdued; 

Thou  hast  written  them  plain  on  the  face  of  the  planet 

In  brave,  deathless  letters  of  iron  and  granite;  35 

Thou  hast  printed  them  deep  for  all  time;  they  are  set 

From  the  same  runic  type-fount  and  alphabet 

With  thy  stout  Berkshire  hills  and  the  arms  of  thy  Bay — 

They  are  staves  from  the  burly  old  Mayflower  lay. 

If  the  drones  of  the  Old  World,  in  querulous  ease,      •  40 

Ask  thy  Art  and  thy  Letters,  point  proudly  to  these; 

Or  if  they  deny  these  are  Letters  and  Art, 

Toil  on  with  the  same  old  invincible  heart: 

Thou  art  rearing  the  pedestal  broad-based  and  grand 

Whereon  the  fair  shapes  of  the  Artist  shall  stand,  45 

And  creating,  through  labors  undaunted  and  long, 

The  theme  for  all  Sculpture  and  Painting  and  Song! 

1847-48,  1848. 

THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 

PRELUDE   TO   PART   FIRST 

Over  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list, 

And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for  his  lay; 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  instrument  5 

Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws  his  theme, 
First  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes  sent 

Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 


Not  only  around  our  infancy 
Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie; 
Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 
We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  411 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies;  15 

With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain  strives; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite; 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea.  20 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us: 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in; 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  us; 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in. 

At  the  devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold;  25 

Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold: 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay; 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking. 

'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 

'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking:  30 

No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune,  35 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays. 
Whether  we  look  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur  or  see  it  glisten; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers,  40 

And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers. 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green,  ^.c 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice. 
And  there  's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace. 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves,  50 

And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 


4i2  AMERICAN  POEMS 


With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives: 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest —  55 

In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back,  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay.  60 

Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it; 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it: 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'T  is  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well  65 

How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near,  70 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack —  7^ 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing; 
And  hark!  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how;  80 

Every  thing  is  happy  now, 

Every  thing  is  upward  striving; 
'T  is  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue — 

'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living.  85 

Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake: 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache; 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth,  90 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  4*3 

Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 
What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow  ?  95 


PART   FIRST 


1  My  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 

And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread,  100 

Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew."  105 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 

The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes, 

In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  knees,  no 

The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 

The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees; 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 

Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray.  115 

T  was  the  proudest  hall  in  the  North  Countree, 
And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree. 
Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 

But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied:  120 

She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 
Though  round  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tall 
Stretched  left  and  right, 
Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight; 

Green  and  broad  was  every  tent,  125 

And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 

The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 


414  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight,  130 

In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot  over  its  wall 

In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers  long, 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  sheaf,  135 

Had  cast  them  forth;  so,  young  and  strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf, 
Sir  Launfal  flashed  forth  in  his  unscarred  mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  Grail. 

It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree,  140 

And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart; 
Only  the  castle  moodily 
Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free, 

And  gloomed  by  itself  apart. 

The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up  145 

Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's  cup. 

As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  darksome  gate, 

He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he  sate: 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came;  150 

The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill, 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armour  'gan  shrink  and  crawl, 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still' 
Like  a  frozen  waterfall; 

For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature,  155 

Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 
The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust: 
'  Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust,  160 

Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door. 
That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold; 
He  gives  nothing  but  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty:  165 

But  he  who  gives  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  415 

Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite — 

The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms,  170 

The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 

For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 

To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before." 


PRELUDE   TO   PART   SECOND 

Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak, 

From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old;  175 

On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold* 

And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek: 

It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere  ., 

From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare.  180 

The  little  brook  heard  it,  and  built  a  roof 

'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof: 

All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 

He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams; 

Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars  .  185 

As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars; 

He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 

In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight; 

Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 

Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt,  190 

Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 

Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze; 

Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 

But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew; 

Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief  195 

With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf; 

Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 

For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and  here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 

And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond-drops,  200 

That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 

And  made  a  star  of  every  one. 

No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 

Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice; 

'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay  205 

In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day. 


4i6  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 

Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost.  210 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter; 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly. 

Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide  215 

Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap, 

And  belly  and  tug,  as  a  flag  in  the  wind; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind;  220 

And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp;  225 

Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 

Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 

A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own,  230 

Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 

Was  "Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless!" 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch; 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway,  and  saw  all  night  235 

The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold, 

Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 

Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 

PART   SECOND 

There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree,  240 

The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  weaver  Winter  its  shroud  had  spun; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun;  245 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  4*7 

Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate,  250 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate; 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail. 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross,  255 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 

Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air, 

For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time;  260 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long-ago: 

He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 

O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small,  265 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one, 

He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 

As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 

To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 

The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade,  270 

And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played, 

And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

''For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms!" — 
The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 

But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsome  thing,  275 

The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 

And  Sir  Launfal  said:  " I  behold  in  thee  280 

An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree: 
Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and  scorns, 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 

The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side.  285 

Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me; 

Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  Theel" 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal;  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise  age 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When  he  girt  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust,  295 

He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink: 
T  was  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl, — 
Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed,  300 

And  't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty  soul. 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place; 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 

But  stood  before  him  glorified,  305 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate — 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 

Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the  pine,  310 

And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine, 
Which  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon; 
And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said: 
'Lo,  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid!  315 

In  many  climes,  without  avail, 
Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail: 
Behold,  it  is  here — this  cup  which  thou 
Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  me  but  now; 
This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee,  320 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  419 

This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree. 

The  Holy  Supper  is  kept  indeed 

In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need: 

Not  what  we  give  but  what  we  share, 

For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare;  325 

,  Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three — 
[  Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound: 
"The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  1 

Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall,  330 

Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall  335 

As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough. 

No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall; 
The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er: 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door, 
She  entered  with  him  in  disguise,  340 

And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise; 
There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 
She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year  round. 
The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 

Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command;  345 

And  there  's  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 
But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 
1848.  1848. 

BEAVER  BROOK 

Hushed  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill; 
And,  minuting  the  long  day's  loss, 
The  cedar's  shadow,  slow  and  still, 
Creeps  o'er  its  dial  of  gray  moss. 

Warm  noon  brims  full  the  valley's  cup,  5 

The  aspen's  leaves  are  scarce  astir; 
Only  the  little  mill  sends  up 
Its  busy,  never-ceasing  burr. 


420  AMERICAN  POEMS 

Climbing  the  loose-piled  wall  that  hems 

The  road  along  the  mill-pond's  brink,  10 

From  'neath  the  arching  barberry-stems 

My  footstep  scares  the  shy  chewink. 

Beneath  a  bony  buttonwood 

The  mill's  red  door  lets  forth  the  din; 

The  whitened  miller,  dust-imbued,  15 

Flits  past  the  square  of  dark  within. 

No  mountain  torrent's  strength  is  here: 

Sweet  Beaver,  child  of  forest  still, 

Heaps  its  small  pitcher  to  the  ear, 

And  gently  waits  the  miller's  will.  20 

Swift  slips  Undine  along  the  race 
Unheard,  and  then,  with  flashing  bound, 
Floods  the  dull  wheel  with  light  and  grace, 
And,  laughing,  hunts  the  loath  drudge  round. 

The  miller  dreams  not  at  what  cost  25 

The  quivering  mill-stones  hum  and  whirl, 
Nor  how  for  every  turn  are  tost 
Armfuls  of  diamond  and  of  pearl. 

But  Summer  cleared  my  happier  eyes 

With  drops  of  some  celestial  juice,  30 

To  see  how  Beauty  underlies 

For  evermore  each  form  of  Use. 

And  more:  methought  I  saw  that  flood 

Which  now  so  dull  and  darkling  steals, 

Thick  here  and  there  with  human  blood,  35 

To  turn  the  world's  laborious  wheels. 

No  more  than  doth  the  miller  there, 

Shut  in  our  several  cells  do  we 

Know  with  what  waste  of  beauty  rare 

Moves  every  day's  machinery.  40 

Surely  the  wiser  time  shall  come 
When  this  fine  overplus  of  might, 
No  longer  sullen,  slow,  and  dumb, 
Shall  leap  to  music  and  to  light. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  421 

In  that  new  childhood  of  the  Earth  45 

Life  of  itself  shall  dance  and  play, 
Fresh  blood  in  Time's  shrunk  veins  make  mirth, 
And  labor  meet  delight  half-way. 
1848.  1849. 

THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where, 

I  walked  last  night  in  mystery  of  dream: 

A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath  my  hair 

To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid  gleam 

Of  a  moon-wraith  that  waned  through  haunted  air.  5 

Pale  fire-flies  pulsed  within  the  meadow-mist 

Their  halos,  wavering  thistle-downs  of  light; 

The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some  goblin  tryst, 

Laughed;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  affright, 

Like  Odin's  hounds  fled  baying  down  the  night.  10 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my  ear 

A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked  my  breath: 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer  ? 

But  something  said,  "This  water  is  of  Death  1 

The  Sisters  wash  a  Shroud— ill  thing  to  hear!"  15 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient  Three 

Known  to  the  Greek's  and  to  the  Norseman's  creed, 

That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 

Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless  brede, 

One  song:  "Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time  shall  be."  20 

No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as  I  had  deemed, 

But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow 

To  mourner,  lover,  poet  ever  seemed: 

Something  too  deep  for  joy,  too  high  for  sorrow, 

Thrilled  in  their  tones  and  from  their  faces  gleamed.  25 

"Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they  have  strawn," 
So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the  while; 

"The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere  dawn: 
For  Austria  ?  Italy  ?  the  Sea-Queen's  Isle  ? 
O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must  our  shroud  be  drawn  ?  30 


422  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse, 
That  gathered  States  for  children  round  his  knees, 
That  tamed  the  wave  to  be  his  posting-horse, 
The  forest-feller,  linker  of  the  seas, 
Bridge-builder,  hammerer,  youngest  son  of  Thor's?  15 

"What  make  we,  murmur'st  thou?  and  what  are  we? 
When  empires  must  be  wound,  we  bring  the  shroud, 
The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three: 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young  and  proud  ? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear  it — why  not  he?"  40 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  I  moaned;  "so  strong,  so  fair! 
Our  Fowler  whose  proud  bird  would  brook  erewhile 
No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air! 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For  him,  life's  morn-gold  bright  yet  in  his  hair?  45 

"Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpitying  dames! 
I  see,  half-seeing:  tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 
The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  still  must  noblest  aims 
Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands  ? 
Must  Hesper  join  the  wailing  ghosts  of  names  ?"  50 

"When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battle-dew, 
Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victors  and  the  slain: 
Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and  true 
To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith  of  brain  ? 
Yet  here  the  victory  is,  if  ye  but  knew.  55 

"Three  roots  bear  up  Dominion:  Knowledge,  Will— 
These  two  are  strong,  but  stronger  yet  the  third, 
Obedience — the  great  tap-root  that  still, 
Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred 
Though  the  storm's  ploughshare  spend  its  utmost  skill.        60 

"Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper?      'T  is  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time: 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity; 
The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance  sublime, 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril:  which  shall  Hesper  be  ?  65 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  423 

"Hath  he  let  vultures  climb  his  eagle's  seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their  maw  ? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more  sweet 
Than  Wisdom  ?  held  Opinion's  wind  for  law  ? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  headsman's  feet!  yc 

"Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flintiest  rock, 
States  climb  to  power  by;  slippery  those  with  gold 
Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal  mock: 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre  hold, 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell  the  block.  75 

"We  sing  old  sagas,  songs  of  weal  and  woe, 
Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours:  men  hear  and  know, 
See  Evil  weak,  see  only  strong  the  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  balk  Doom's  fire  with  walls  of  tow.  80 

"Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time  Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  and  of  gloom; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely  his. 
But  hasten,  Sisters!  for  even  now  the  tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the  abyss."  8q 

"But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "not  yet  for  him 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by  star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  ocean's  rim 
The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden  bar! 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye  grow  dim !  90 

"  His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved  for  those 
That  walk  unblenching  through  the  trial-fires: 
Not  suffering  but  faint  heart  is  worst  of  woes; 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires, 
Whose  eye  need  droop  confronted  with  his  foes.  95 

"Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  enemy's  lines: 
Peace,  too,  brings  tears;  and  'mid  the  battle-din 
The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 
For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with  darker  sin.  100 


424  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"God,  give  us  peace!  not  such  as  lulls  to  sleep, 
But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose  knit! 
And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 
Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 
And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for  their  leap!"  105 

So  said  I  with  clenched  hands  and  passionate  pain, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side: 
Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and  again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and  died, 
While,  waking,  I  recalled  my  wandering  brain.  no 

1861.  1861. 

THE  COURTIN' 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen; 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown  5 

An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder; 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 

With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in —  10 

There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 

To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 
An*  leetle  flames  danced  all  about  15 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted.  20 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 

Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 
An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 

Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 425 

T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look  25 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur; 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  i, 

Clean  grit  an'  human  natur';  30 

None  couldn't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighten 

He  'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells —  35 

All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple; 
The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 

Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il.  4° 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer,  45 

When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  somcl 

She  seemed  to  Ve  gut  a  new  soul,  50 

For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he  'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin*  on  the  scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew  55 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  1'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle; 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle.  60 


426  AMERICAN  POEMS 


An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 

Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 
An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 

Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"  You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose  ?  "  65 

"Wai — no — I  come  dasignin'" — 
"To  see  my  Ma?     She  is  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'ninV 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 

Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin':  70 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 

Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'  other, 
An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust  75 

He  couldn't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "I  'd  better  call  agin"; 

Says  she,  "Think  likely,  Mister"-— 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An' — wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her.  80 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

Fur  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind  85 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressing  QO 

Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood 
An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy; 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried  95 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 
1848-66.  1848,  1866. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  427 

ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  HARVARD 
COMMEMORATION 


Weak-winged  is  song, 
Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 
Whither  the  brave  deed  climbs  for  light: 

We  seem  to  do  them  wrong, 
Bringing  our  robin's-leaf  to  deck  their  hearse 
Who  in  warm  life-blood  wrote  their  nobler  verse, 
Our  trivial  song  to  honor  those  who  come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump  and  drum, 
And  shaped  in  squadron-strophes  their  desire, 
Live  battle-odes  whose  lines  were  steel  and  fire. 

Yet  sometimes  feathered  words  are  strong 
A  gracious  memory  to  buoy  up  and  save 
From  Lethe's  dreamless  ooze,  the  common  grave 
Of  the  unventurous  throng. 


To-day  our  Reverend  Mother  welcomes  back  15 

Her  wisest  Scholars,  those  who  understood 
The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome 

And  offered  their  fresh  lives  to  make  it  good. 

No  lore  of  Greece  or  Rome, 

No  science  peddling  with  the  names  of  things,  20 

Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far  from  Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the  many  waits, 

And  lengthen  out  our  dates 

With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory  sings  25 

In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves  them  and  dilates: 
Nor  such  thy  teaching,  Mother  of  us  alll 

Not  such  the  trumpet-call 

Of  thy  diviner  mood, 

That  could  thy  sons  entice  30 

From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruitful  nest 
Of  those  half-virtues  which  the  world  calls  best, 

Into  War's  tumult  rude; 

But  rather  far  that  stern  device 


428  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  sponsors  chose  that  round  thy  cradle  stood  35 

In  the  dim,  unventured  wood, 
The  VERITAS  that  lurks  beneath 
The  letter's  unprolific  sheath, 
Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth  living, 
Seed-grain  of  high  emprise,  immortal  food,  40 

One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth  hath  the  giving. 

in 
Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best  oil 

Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her, 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 

With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  behind  her;  45 

Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her, 

Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed  for  her. 

But  these,  our  brothers,  fought  for  her, 

At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 

So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her,  50 

Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness 

Of  her  divine  completeness: 

Their  higher  instinct  knew 
Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves  are  true, 
And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of  dare  to  do:  55 

They  followed  her  and  found  her 

Where  all  may  hope  to  find, 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But  beautiful,  with  danger's  sweetness  round  her: 

Where  faith,  made  whole  with  deed,  60 

Breathes  its  awakening  breath 

Into  the  lifeless  creed, 

They  saw  her,  plumed  and  mailed, 

With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  look  proud  on  them  in  death.        65 

rv 

Our  slender  life  runs  rippling  by,  and  glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past; 

What  is  there  that  abides 
To  make  the  next  age  better  for  the  last  ? 

Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us  70 

Something  to  live  for  here  that  shall  outlive  us  ? 

Some  more  substantial  boon 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


Than  such  as  flows  and  ebbs  with  Fortune's  fickle  moon  ? 
The  little  that  we  see 

From  doubt  is  never  free;  75 

The  little  that  we  do 
Is  but  half-nobly  true; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 
What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods  call  dross, 

Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving,  80 

Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 
A  long  account  of  nothings  paid  with  loss, 
Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked  by  unseen  wires, 

After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave, 
With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and  desires,  85 

Loves,  hates,  ambitions,  and  immortal  fires, 
Are  tossed  pell-mell  together  in  the  grave. 

Ah,  there  is  something  here 
Unfathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer; 
Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light  9° 

A  high  immunity  from  Night; 
Something  that  leaps  life's  narrow  bars 
To  claim  its  birthright  with  the  hosts  of  heaven: 
A  seed  of  sunshine  that  doth  leaven 
Our  earthly  dulness  with  the  beams  of  stars,  95 

And  glorify  our  clay 

With  light  from  fountains  elder  than  the  Day; 
A  conscience  more  divine  than  we, 
A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 

A  vexing,  forward-reaching  sense  100 

Of  some  more  noble  permanence; 

A  light  across  the  sea, 

Which  haunts  the  soul  and  will  not  let  it  be, 
Still  glimmering  from  the  heights  of  undegenerate  years. 


Whither  leads  the  path  105 

To  ampler  fates  that  leads  ? 
Not  down  through  flowery  meads, 

To  reap  an  aftermath 
Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds; 

But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath  n^ 

And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 


43° 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Where  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate  way, 
And  every  turf  the  fierce  foot  clings  to  bleeds. 

Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath,  115 

Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Lights  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the  sword 

Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath: 
But  some  day  the  live  coal  behind  the  thought, 

Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene,  120 

Or  from  the  shrine  serene 

Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame;  the  war  of  tongue  and  pen 
Learns  with  what  deadly  purpose  it  was  fraught, 
And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught,  125 

Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock  of  men. 
Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed 
Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset,  pursued, 
And  cries  reproachful:  "Was  it,  then,  my  praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved  ?    Prove  now  thy  truth  1         130 
I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth; 
Give  me  thy  life,  or  cower  in  empty  phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate!" 
Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed  135 

As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  generous  is  Fate; 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 

When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield,  140 

This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 

And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 

Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stands  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid  earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth,  145 

Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 

VI 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 

With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief:  1,50 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  431 

Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 

And  cannot  make  a  man  155 

Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote: 

For  him  her  Old-World  mould  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West,  160 

With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge  but  never  loved  to  lead;  165 

One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust;  170 

They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here —  175 

Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 

Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface: 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face.  180 

I  praise  him  not:  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 

Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate.  ^5 

So  always  firmly  he: 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide.  x  19C 

Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 


432  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame,  195 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 

vn 

Long  as  man's  hope  insatiate  can  discern 

Or  only  guess  some  more  inspiring  goal  200 

Outside  of  Self,  enduring  as  the  pole, 
Along  whose  course  the  flying  axles  burn 
Of  spirits  bravely-pitched,  earth's  manlier  brood; 
Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 

The  meed  that  stills  the  inexorable  mind;  205 

So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 

Under  whatever  mortal  names  it  masks — 

Freedom,  Law,  Country, — this  ethereal  mood 
That  thanks  the  Fates  for  their  severer  tasks, 

Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap  210 

While  others  skulk  in  subterfuges  cheap, 
And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the  boon  it  asks, 

Shall  win  man's  praise  and  woman's  love, 

Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 
All  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear,  215 

A  virtue  round  whose  forehead  we  enwreathe 

Laurels  that  with  a  living  passion  breathe 
When  other  crowns  are  cold  and  soon  grow  sear. 

What  brings  us  thronging  these  high  rites  to  pay, 
And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our  year,  220 

Save  that  our  brothers  found  this  better  way  ? 

vm 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and  milk; 

But  't  was  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk.  225 

We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our  best — 

Ah  me!  not  alll  some  come  not  with  the  rest. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  433 

Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any  here! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain, 

But  the  sad  strings  complain,  230 

And  will  not  please  the  ear: 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge  and  die  away  in  pain. 

In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps,  235 

Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb  turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to  gain: 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving; 

I  with  uncovered  head  240 

Salute  the  sacred  dead, 
Who  went,  and  who  return  not. — Say  not  sol 
T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the  way; 
Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the  grave;  245 

No  ban  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 

We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  behind. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow! 
For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack:  250 

I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler  show; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track; 

In  every  nobler  mood 

We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow,  255 

Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted  ways, 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays  260 

Of  mom  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expectation! 

DC 

Who  now  shall  sneer  ? 
Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace 
Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race  ? 

Roundhead  and  Cavalier!  265 

Dreams  are  those  names  erewhile  in  battle  loud; 


434 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Forceless  as  is  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  live  but  in  the  ear: 
That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron  in  't 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint  270 

For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 
Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,  and  Guelfs,  whose  thin  bloods  crawl 
Down  from  some  victor  in  a  border-brawl! 

How  poor  their  outworn  coronets,  275 

Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic  wreath 
Our  brave  for  honor's  blazon  shall  bequeath, 

Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation  sets 
Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears  280 

With  vain  resentments  and  more  vain  regrets! 


Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride, 

Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude 

Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 

But  with  far-heard  gratitude,  285 

Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed, 
To  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs  dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates  our  brave. 
Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head! 

Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave,  290 

Not  without  a  martial  ring, 

Not  without  a  prouder  tread 

And  a  peal  of  exultation: 

Little  right  has  he  to  sing 

Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour  295 

Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 

Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation! 

T  is  no  Man  we  celebrate, 
By  his  country's  victories  great, 
A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate,  300 

But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a  Nation 

Drawing  force  from  all  her  men, 

Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all, 

Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower,  $05 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  435 

Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 
Touched  but  in  passing  by  her  mantle-hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  't  is  her  dower  I 
How  could  poet  ever  tower, 

If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears,  310 

If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  people  ? 
Boom,  camion,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and  waves! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking  steeple! 
Banners,  advance  with  triumph,  bend  your  staves!         315 
And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let  beacon-fire  to  answering  beacon  speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface  he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 

Till  the  glad  news  be  sent  320 

Across  a  kindling  continent, 

Making  earth  feel  more  firm  and  air  breathe  braver: 
'Be  proud  1  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have  helped  to  save 

her! 

She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the  poor, 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door,  325 

With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all  mankind! 
The  helm  from  her  bold  front  she  doth  unbind, 
Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to  spin, 
And  bids  her  navies  hold  their  thunders  in. 
No  challenge  sends  she  to  the  elder  world,  330 

That  looked  askance  and  hated;  a  light  scorn 
Plays  on  her  mouth,  as  round  her  mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits  the  morn 
Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her  subject  seas." 


XI 

Bow  down,  dear  Land,  for  thou  hast  found  release!         335 

Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of  His  ways, 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought  thy  peace. 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise! 

O  Beautiful!  my  Country!  ours  once  more!  340 

Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 


436  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  letting  thy  set  lips, 

Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 

The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare,  345 

What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  compare  ? 

What  were  our  lives  without  thee  ? 

What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee?  350 

We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee; 

We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee; 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare! 
1865.  1865. 


BAYARD  TAYLOR 

THE  FIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL  MAR 

Gusty  and  raw  was  the  morning, 

A  fog  hung  over  the  seas, 
And  its  gray  skirts,  rolling  inland, 

Were  torn  by  the  mountain  trees; 
No  sound  was  heard  but  the  dashing  5 

Of  waves  on  the  sandy  bar, 
When  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  to  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

The  pescaddr,  out  in  his  shallop, 

Gathering  his  harvest  so  wide,  10 

Sees  the  dim  bulk  of  the  headland 

Loom  over  the  waste  of  the  tide; 
He  sees,  like  a  white  thread,  the  pathway 

Wind  round  on  the  terrible  wall, 
Where  the  faint,  moving  speck  of  the  rider  15 

Seems  hovering  close  to  its  fall. 

Stout  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  from  the  hills  behind; 
With  the  bells  on  his  gray  mule  tinkling, 

He  sang  through  the  fog  and  wind.  20 


BAYARD  TAYLOR  437 


Under  his  thick,  misted  eyebrows 

Twinkled  his  eye  like  a  star, 
And  fiercer  he  sang  as  the  sea-winds 

Drove  cold  on  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

Now  Bernal,  the  herdsman  of  Chino,  25 

Had  travelled  the  shore  since  dawn, 
Leaving  the  ranches  behind  him — 

Good  reason  had  he  to  be  gone ! 
The  blood  was  still  red  on  his  dagger, 

The  fury  was  hot  in  his  brain,  30 

And  the  chill,  driving  scud  of  the  breakers 

Beat  thick  on  his  forehead  in  vain. 

With  his  poncho  wrapped  gloomily  round  him, 

He  mounted  the  dizzying  road, 
And  the  chasms  and  steeps  of  the  headland  35 

Were  slippery  and  wet  as  he  trod: 
Wild  swept  the  wind  of  the  ocean, 

Rolling  the  fog  from  afar, 
When  near  him  a  mule-bell  came  tinkling, 

Midway  on  the  Paso  del  Mar.  40 

'Back!"  shouted  Bernal,  full  fiercely; 

And  "Back!"  shouted  Pablo,  in  wrath, 
As  his  mule  halted,  startled  and  shrinking, 

On  the  perilous  line  of  the  path. 
The  roar  of  devouring  surges  45 

Came  up  from  the  breakers'  hoarse  war; 
And  "Back,  or  you  perish!"  cried  Bernal, 

"I  turn  not  on  Paso  del  Mar!" 

The  gray  mule  stood  firm  as  the  headland; 

He  clutched  at  the  jingling  rein,  50 

When  Pablo  rose  up  in  his  saddle 

And  smote  till  he  dropped  it  again. 
A  wild  oath  of  passion  swore  Bernal, 

And  brandished  his  dagger,  still  red, 
While  fiercely  stout  Pablo  leaned  forward,  55 

And  fought  o'er  his  trusty  mule's  head. 


43g  AMERICAN  POEMS 


They  fought  till  the  black  wall  below  them 

Shone  red  through  the  misty  blast; 
Stout  Pablo  then  struck,  leaning  farther, 

The  broad  breast  of  Bernal  at  last:  60 

And,  frenzied  with  pain,  the  swart  herdsman 

Closed  on  him  with  terrible  strength, 
And  jerked  him,  despite  of  his  struggles, 

Down  from  the  saddle  at  length. 

They  grappled  with  desperate  madness,  65 

On  the  slippery  edge  of  the  wall; 
They  swayed  on  the  brink,  and  together 

Reeled  out  to  the  rush  of  the  fall. 
A  cry  of  the  wildest  death-anguish 

Rang  faint  through  the  mist  afar,  70 

And  the  riderless  mule  went  homeward 

From  the  fight  of  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

1848. 


BEDOUIN  SONG 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee, 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry: 
I  love  thee!  I  love  but  thee! 

With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold! 


Look  from  thy  window,  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain ! 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain.  15 

Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 


BAYARD  TAYLOR  439 


And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold,  20 

And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 

By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed  25 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 

The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more  30 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold! 

1853- 


TO  THE  NILE 

Mysterious  Flood,  that  through  the  silent  sands 

Hast  wandered,  century  on  century, 
Watering  the  length  of  green  Egyptian  lands, 
Which  were  not  but  for  thee, 

Art  thou  the  keeper  of  that  eldest  lore  5 

Written  ere  yet  thy  hieroglyphs  began 
When  dawned  upon  thy  fresh,  untrampled  shore 
The  earliest  life  of  Man  ? 

Thou  guardest  temple  and  vast  pyramid, 

Where  the  gray  Past  records  its  ancient  speech;  10 

But  in  thine  unrevealing  breast  lies  hid 
What  they  refuse  to  teach. 

All  other  streams  with  human  joys  and  fears 

Run  blended,  o'er  the  plains  of  History: 
Thou  tak'st  no  note  of  Man;  a  thousand  years  15 

Are  as  a  day  to  thee. 


440  AMERICAN  POEMS 


What  were  to  thee  the  Osirian  festivals  ? 

Or  Memnon's  music  on  the  Theban  plain  ? 
The  carnage,  when  Cambyses  made  thy  halls 

Ruddy  with  royal  slain  ?  20 

Even  then  thou  wast  a  God,  and  shrines  were  built 

For  worship  of  thine  own  majestic  flood; 
For  thee  the  incense  burned,  for  thee  was  spilt 
The  sacrificial  blood. 

And  past  the  bannered  pylons  that  arose  25 

Above  thy  palms,  the  pageantry  and  state, 
Thy  current  flowed,  calmly  as  now  it  flows, 
Unchangeable  as  Fate. 

Thou  givest  blessing  as  a  God  might  give, 

Whose  being  is  his  bounty:  from  the  slime  30 

Shaken  from  off  thy  skirts  the  nations  live, 
Through  all  the  years  of  Time. 

In  thy  solemnity,  thine  awful  calm, 

Thy  grand  indifference  of  Destiny, 

My  soul  forgets  its  pain,  and  drinks  the  balm  35 

Which  thou  dost  proffer  me. 

Thy  godship  is  unquestioned  still:  I  bring 

No  doubtful  worship  to  thy  shrine  supreme; 
But  thus  my  homage  as  a  chaplet  fling, 

To  float  upon  thy  stream!  40 

1855- 

THE  QUAKER  WIDOW 

Thee  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah — come  in!     'T  is  kind  of  thee 
To  wait  until  the  Friends  were  gone,  who  came  to  comfort  me: 
The  still  and  quiet  company  a  peace  may  give,  indeed, 
But  blessed  is  the  single  heart  that  comes  to  us  at  need. 

Come,  sit  thee  down!  Here  is  the  bench  where  Benjamin  would  sit         5 
On  First-day  afternoons  in  spring,  and  watch  the  swallows  flit: 
He  loved  to  smell  the  sprouting  box,  and  hear  the  pleasant  bees 
Go  humming  round  the  lilacs  and  through  the  apple-trees. 


BAYARD  TAYLOR  441 


I  think  he  loved  the  spring:  not  that  he  cared  for  flowers — most  men 
Think  such. things  foolishness — but  we  were  first  acquainted  then,         10 
One  spring;  the  next  he  spoke  his  mind;  the  third  I  was  his  wife; 
And  in  the  spring  (it  happened  so)  our  children  entered  life. 

He  was  but  seventy-five:  I  did  not  think  to  lay  him  yet 

In  Kennett  graveyard,  where  at  Monthly  Meeting  first  we  met. 

The  Father's  mercy  shows  in  this:  't  is  better  I  should  be  15 

Picked  out  to  bear  the  heavy  cross — alone  in  age — than  he. 

We  've  lived  together  fifty  years:  it  seems  but  one  long  day, 

One  quiet  Sabbath  of  the  heart,  till  he  was  called  away; 

And  as  we  bring  from  Meeting-time  a  sweet  contentment  home, 

So,  Hannah,  I  have  store  of  peace  for  all  the  days  to  come.  20 

I  mind  (for  I  can  tell  thee  now)  how  hard  it  was  to  know 
If  I  had  heard  the  spirit  right,  that  told  me  I  should  go; 
For  father  had  a  deep  concern  upon  his  mind  that  day, 
But  mother  spoke  for  Benjamin — she  knew  what  best  to  say. 

Then  she  was  still.    They  sat  awhile;  at  last  she  spoke  again:  25 

"The  Lord  incline  thee  to  the  rightl"   And  "Thou  shalt  have  him, 

Jane!" 

My  father  said.     I  cried.     Indeed,  't  was  not  the  least  of  shocks, 
For  Benjamin  was  Hicksite,  and  father  Orthodox. 

I  thought  of  this  ten  years  ago,  when  daughter  Ruth  we  lost: 

Her  husband  's  of  the  world,  and  yet  I  could  not  see  her  crossed.          30 

She  wears,  thee  knows,  the  gayest  gowns,  she  hears  a  hireling 

priest — 
Ah,  dearl  the  cross  was  ours:  her  life  's  a  happy  one,  at  least. 

Perhaps  she  '11  wear  a  plainer  dress  when  she  's  as  old  as  I — 

Would  thee  believe  it,  Hannah?  once  7  felt  temptation  nigh! 

My  wedding-gown  was  ashen  silk,  too  simple  for  my  taste:  35 

I  wanted  lace  around  the  neck,  and  a  ribbon  at  the  waist. 

How  strange  it  seemed  to  sit  with  him  upon  the  women's  side! 

I  did  not  dare  to  lift  my  eyes:  I  felt  more  fear  than  pride, 

Till  "In  the  presence  of  the  Lord,"  he  said,  and  then  there  came 

A  holy  strength  upon  my  heart  and  I  could  say  the  same.  40 


442  AMERICAN  POEMS 


I  used  to  blush  when  he  came  near,  but  then  I  showed  no  sign; 
With  all  the  meeting  looking  on,  I  held  his  hand  in  mine.  • 
It  seemed  my  bashfulness  was  gone,  now  I  was  his  for  life: 
Thee  knows  the  feeling,  Hannah — thee,  too,  hast  been  a  wife. 

As  home  we  rode,  I  saw  no  fields  look  half  so  green  as  ours;  45 

The  woods  were  coming  into  leaf,  the  meadows  full  of  flowers; 
The  neighbors  met  us  in  the  lane,  and  every  face  was  kind — 
'T  is  strange  how  lively  everything  comes  back  upon  my  mind. 

I  see,  as  plain  as  thee  sits  there,  the  wedding-dinner  spread: 
At  our  own  table  we  were  guests,  with  father  at  the  head;  50 

And  Dinah  Passmore  helped  us  both — 't  was  she  stood  up  with  me, 
And  Abner  Jones  with  Benjamin, — and  now  they  're  gone,  all  three! 

It  is  not  right  to  wish  for  death;  the  Lord  disposes  best. 

His  Spirit  comes  to  quiet  hearts,  and  fits  them  for  His  rest; 

And  that  He  halved  our  little  flock  was  merciful,  I  see:  55 

For  Benjamin  has  two  in  heaven,  and  two  are  left  with  me. 

Eusebius  never  cared  to  farm — 't  was  not  his  call,  in  truth: 
And  I  must  rent  the  dear  old  place,  and  go  to  daughter  Ruth. 
Thee  '11  say  her  ways  are  not  like  mine — young  people  now-a-days 
Have  fallen  sadly  off,  I  think,  from  all  the  good  old  ways.  60 

But  Ruth  is  still  a  Friend  at  heart:  she  keeps  the  simple  tongue, 
The  cheerful,  kindly  nature  we  loved  when  she  was  young; 
And  it  was  brought  upon  my  mind,  remembering  her,  of  late, 
That  we  on  dress  and  outward  things  perhaps  lay  too  much  weight. 

I  once  heard  Jesse  Kersey  say  a  spirit  clothed  with  grace,  65 

And  pure  almost  as  angels  are,  may  have  a  homely  face. 
And  dress  may  be  of  less  account;  the  Lord  will  look  within: 
The  soul  it  is  that  testifies  of  righteousness  or  sin. 

Thee  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  Ruth:  she  's  anxious  I  should  go, 

And  she  will  do  her  duty  as  a  daughter  should,  I  know.  70 

'T  is  hard  to  change  so  late  in  life,  but  we  must  be  resigned: 

The  Ix>rd  looks  down  contentedly  upon  a  willing  mind. 

1863. 


WALT  WHITMAN  443 


WALT  WHITMAN 

[The  selections  from  Whitman  are  reprinted  from  the  copyrighted  1891  edition  of  his 
poems,  with  the  permission  of  his  literary  executors,  Messrs.  H.  L.  Tiaubel  and  T.  B. 
Harned,  and  of  his  publisher,  Mitchell  Kennerley] 

FROM 

SONG  OF  MYSELF 

i 

I  celebrate  myself,  and  sing  myself, 
And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume, 
For  every  atom  belonging  to  me  as  good  belongs  to  you. 

I  loafe  and  invite  my  soul; 

T  lean  and  loafe  at  my  ease,  observing  a  spear  of  summer  grass.  5 

My  tongue,  every  atom  of  my  blood,  form'd  from  this  soil,  this  air, 
Born  here  of  parents  born  here  from  parents  the  same,  and  their  parents 

the  same, 

I,  now  thirty-seven  years  old,  in  perfect  health  begin, 
Hoping  to  cease  not  till  death. 

Creeds  and  schools  in  abeyance,  10 

Retiring  back  a  while  sufficed  at  what  they  are  but  never  forgotten, 
I  harbor  for  good  or  bad,  I  permit  to  speak  at  every  hazard, 
Nature  without  check,  with  original  energy. 

21 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  Body  and  I  am  the  poet  of  the  Soul. 
The  pleasures  of  heaven  are  with  me  and  the  pains  of  hell  are  with  me;     15 
The  first  I  graft  and  increase  upon  myself,  the  latter  I  translate  into  a 
new  tongue. 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  woman  the  same  as  the  man, 
And  I  say  it  is  as  great  to  be  a  woman  as  to  be  a  man, 
And  I  say  there  is  nothing  greater  than  the  mother  of  men. 

I  chant  the  chant  of  dilation  or  pride,  20 

We  have  had  ducking  and  deprecating  about  enough, 

I  show  that  size  is  only  development. 

Have  you  outstript  the  rest  ?   are  you  the  President  ? 

It  is  a  trifle;  they  will  more  than  arrive  there  every  one,  and  still  pass  on. 

f  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night;  25 

I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half-held  by  the  night. 


444  AMERICAN  POEMS 

Press  close,  bare-bosom'd  night — press  close,  magnetic  nourishing  night! 

Night  of  south  winds — night  of  the  large  few  stars! 

Still,  nodding  night — mad  naked  summer  night! 

Smile,  O  voluptuous  cool-breath'd  earth!  30 

Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees! 

Earth  of  departed  sunset — earth  of  the  mountains  misty-topt! 

Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon  just  tinged  with  blue! 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark  mottling  the  tide  of  the  river! 

Earth  of  the  limpid  gray  of  clouds  brighter  and  clearer  for  my  sake!          35 

Far-swooping  elbow'd  earth — rich  apple-blossom 'd  earth! 

Smile,  for  your  lover  comes. 

Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love — therefore  I  to  you  give  love! 

0  unspeakable  passionate  love. 

32 

1  think  I  could  turn  and  live  with  animals,  they  are  so  placid  and  self- 

contain 'd;  40 

I  stand  and  look  at  them  long  and  long. 
They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition, 
They  do-not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for  their  sins, 
They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to  God, 
Not  one  is  dissatisfied,  not  one  is  demented  with  the  mania  of  own 
ing  things,  45 
Not  one  kneels  to  another  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived  thousands  of  years 

ago, 
Not  one  is  respectable  or  unhappy  over  the  whole  earth. 


33 

I  understand  the  large  hearts  of  heroes, 

The  courage  of  present  times  and  all  times; 

How  the  skipper  saw  the  crowded  and  rudderless  wreck  of  the  steam 
ship,  and  Death  chasing  it  up  and  down  the  storm,  50 

How  he  knuckled  tight  and  gave  not  back  an  inch,  and  was  faithful  of 
days  and  faithful  of  nights, 

And  chalk'd  in  large  letters  on  a  board,  Be  of  good  cheer,  we  will  not 
desert  you; 

How  he  follow'd  with  them  and  tack'd  with  them  three  days  and  would 
not  give  it  up, 

How  he  saved  the  drifting  company  at  last, 


WALT  WHITMAN  445 


How  the  lank  loose-gown'd  women  look'd  when  boated  from  the  side 

of  their  prepared  graves,  55 

How  the  silent  old-faced  infants  and  the  lifted  sick,  and  the  sharp- 
lipp'd  unshaved  men. 

All  this  I  swallow,  it  tastes  good,  I  like  it  well,  it  becomes  mine, 

I  am  the  man,  I  suffer'd,  I  was  there. 

Agonies  are  one  of  my  changes  of  garments; 

I  do  not  ask  the  wounded  person  how  he  feels,  I  myself  become  the 

wounded  person,  60 

My  hurts  turn  livid  upon  me  as  I  lean  on  a  cane  and  observe. 

I  am  the  mash'd  fireman  with  breast-bone  broken, 

Tumbling  walls  buried  me  in  their  debris, 

Heat  and  smoke  I  inspired,  I  heard  the  yelling  shouts  of  my  comrades, 

I  heard  the  distant  click  of  their  picks  and  shovels,  65 

They  have  clear'd  the  beams  away,  they  tenderly  lift  me  forth. 

I  lie  in  the  night  air  in  my  red  shirt,  the  pervading  hush  is  for  my  sake; 

Painless  after  all  I  lie,  exhausted  but  not  so  unhappy; 

White  and  beautiful  are  the  faces  around  me,  the  heads  are  bared  of 

their  fire-caps; 
The  kneeling  crowd  fades  with  the  light  of  the  torches.  70 


45 

Old  age  superbly  rising!  O  welcome,  ineffable  grace  of  dying  days! 

Every  condition  promulges  not  only  itself,  it  promulges  what  grows 

after  and  out  of  itself, 
And  the  dark  hush  promulges  as  much  as  any. 

I  open  my  scuttle  at  night  and  see  the  far-sprinkled  systems; 

And  all  I  see,  multiplied  as  high  as  I  can  cipher,  edge  but  the  rim 

of  the  farther  systems.  75 

Wider  and  wider  they  spread,  expanding,  always  expanding, 
Outward  and  outward  and  forever  outward. 
My  sun  has  his  sun  and  round  him  obediently  wheels, 
He  joins  with  his  partners  a  group  of  superior  circuit, 
And  greater  sets  follow,  making  specks  of  the  greatest  inside  them.  80 


446  AMERICAN  POEMS 


There  is  no  stoppage  and  never  can  be  stoppage; 

If  I,  you,  and  the  worlds,  and  all  beneath  or  upon  their  surfaces,  were 

this  moment  reduced  back  to  a  pallid  float,  it  would  not  avail 

in  the  long  run, 

We  should  surely  bring  up  again  where  we  now  stand, 
And  surely  go  as  much  farther,  and  then  farther  and  farther. 

A  few  quadrillions  of  eras,  a  few  octillions  of  cubic  leagues,  do  not 

hazard  the  span  or  make  it  impatient;  85 

They  are  but  parts,  any  thing  is  but  a  part. 
See  ever  so  far,  there  is  limitless  space  outside  of  that; 
Count  ever  so  much,  there  is  limitless  time  around  that. 

My  rendezvous  is  appointed,  it  is  certain; 

The  Lord  will  be  there  and  wait  till  I  come,  on  perfect  terms;  90 

The  great  Camerado,  the  lover  true  for  whom  I  pine,  will  be  there. 

46 

This  day  before  dawn  I  ascended  a  hill  and  look'd  at  the  crowded  heaven, 
And  I  said  to  my  spirit,  When  we  become  the  enf  aiders  of  those  orbs  and  the 

pleasure  and  knowledge  of  every  thing  in  them,  shall  we  befill'd  and 

satisfied  then  ? 
And  my  spirit  said,  No,  we  but  level  that  lift  to  pass  and  continue  beyond. 


1855,  1881. 


FROM 

FACES 


The  old  face  of  the  mother  of  many  children; 
Whist  1 1  am  fully  content. 

Lull'd  and  late  is  the  smoke  of  the  First-day  morning, 
It  hangs  low  over  the  rows  of  trees  by  the  fences, 
It  hangs  thin  by  the  sassafras  and  wild-cherry  and  cat- 
brier  under  them.  5 

I  saw  the  rich  ladies  in  full  dress  at  the  soiree; 
I  heard  what  the  singers  were  singing  so  long, 
Heard  who  sprang  in  crimson  youth  from  the  white  froth 
and  the  water-blue. 


WALT  WHITMAN  447 


Behold  a  woman! 

She  looks  out  from  her  quaker  cap,  her  face  is  clearer  and 

more  beautiful  than  the  sky.  10 

She  sits  in  an  armchair  under  the  shaded  porch  of  the 

farm-house, 

The  sun  just  shines  on  her  old  white  head. 
Her  ample  gown  is  of  cream-hued  linen; 
Her  grandsons  raised  the  flax,  and  her  grand-daughters 

spun  it  with  the  distaff  and  the  wheel. 

The  melodious  character  of  the  earth,  15 

The  finish  beyond  which  philosophy  cannot  go  and  does 

not  wish  to  go, 
The  justified  mother  of  men. 

1855- 


OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE  ENDLESSLY  ROCKING 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking, 

Out  of  the  mocking-bird's  throat,  the  musical  shuttle, 

Out  of  the  Ninth-month  midnight, 

Over  the  sterile  sands  and  the  fields  beyond,  where  the  child, 

leaving  his  bed,  wander'd  alone,  bareheaded,  barefoot, 
Down  from  the  shower'd  halo,  i 

Up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows  twining  and  twisting  as  if  they 

were  alive, 

Out  from  the  patches  of  briers  and  blackberries, 
From  the  memories  of  the  bird  that  chanted  to  me, 
From  your  memories,  sad  brother,  from  the  fitful  risings  and 

fallings  I  heard, 
From  under  that  yellow  half-moon  late-risen  and  swollen  as  if 

with  tears,  ic 

From  those  beginning  notes  of  yearning  and  love  there  in  the  mist, 
From  the  thousand  responses  of  my  heart  never  to  cease, 
From  the  myriad  thence-arous'd  words, 
From  the  word  stronger  and  more  delicious  than  any, 
From  such  as  now  they  start,  the  scene  revisiting,  15 

As  a  flock,  twittering,  rising,  or  overhead  passing, 
Borne  hither,  ere  all  eludes  me,  hurriedly, 
A  man,  yet  by  these  tears  a  little  boy  again, 
Throwing  myself  on  the  sand,  confronting  the  waves, 


448  AMERICAN  POEMS 


I,  chanter  of  pains  and  joys,  uniter  of  here  and  hereafter,  20 

Taking  all  hints  to  use  them,  but  swiftly  leaping  beyond  them, 
A  reminiscence  sing. 

Once  Paumanok, 

When  the  lilac-scent  was  in  the  air  and  Fifth-month  grass  was 

growing, 

Up  this  seashore  in  some  briers,  25 

Two  feather'd  guests  from  Alabama,  two  together, 
And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs  spotted  with  brown; 
And  every  day  the  he-bird  to  and  fro  near  at  hand, 
And  every  day  the  she-bird  crouch'd  on  her  nest,  silent,  with 

bright  eyes, 
And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close,  never  disturbing 

them,  ^o 

Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

Shine!  shine!  shine! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  sun! 

While  we  bask,  we  two  together. 

Two  together!  35 

Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north, 

Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 

Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 

Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 

While  we  two  keep  together.  40 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

May-be  kill'd,  unknown  to  her  mate, 

One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouch'd  not  on  the  nest, 

Nor  return'd  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 

Nor  ever  appear'd  again.  45 

And  thenceforward  all  summer,  in  the  sound  of  the  sea, 

And  at  night  under  the  full  of  the  moon  in  calmer  weather, 

Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 

Or  flitting  from  brier  to  brier  by  day, 

I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals  the  remaining  one,  the  he-bird,  50 

The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 


WALT  WHITMAN  449 


Blow!  blow!  blow/ 

Blow  up,  sea-winds,  along  Paumanok's  shore; 

I  wait  and  I  wait  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me. 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glisten'd,  55 

All  night  long  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scallop'd  stake, 

Down  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 

Sat  the  lone  singer,  wonderful,  causing  tears. 

He  call'd  on  his  mate, 

He  pour'd  forth  the  meanings  which  I  of  all  men  know.  60 

Yes,  my  brother,  I  know; 

The  rest  might  not,  but  I  have  treasur'd  every  note: 

For  more  than  once,  dimly  down  to  the  beach  gliding, 

Silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending  myself  with  the  shadows, 

Recalling  now  the  obscure  shapes,  the  echoes,  the  sounds  and 

sights  after  their  sorts,  65 

The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing, 
f,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listen'd  long  and  long; 

Listen'd  to  keep,  to  sing,  now  translating  the  notes, 
Following  you,  my  brother.  70 

Soothe!  soothe!  soothe! 

Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind, 

And  again  another  behind  embracing  and  lapping,  every  one  close; 

But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  the  moon,  it  rose  late,  75 

//  is  lagging — O  I  think  it  is  heavy  with  love,  with  love. 

0  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love. 

0  night!  do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out  among  the  breakers  f 

What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in  the  white  ?  80 

Loud!  loud!  loud! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love! 

High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves; 

Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here, 

You  must  know  who  I  am,  my  love.  85 


450  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Low-hanging  moon! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow  ? 

0  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate! 

0  moon,  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

Land!  land!  0  land!  90 

Whichever  way  I  turn,  0  I  think  you  could  give  me  my  mate  back 

again  if  you  only  would, 
For  am  I  almost  sure  I  see  her  dimly  whichever  way  I  look. 

0  rising  stars! 

Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so  much  will  rise,  will  rise  with  some  of  you. 

0  throat!  O  trembling  throat!  95 

Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere! 

Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth; 

Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you  must  be  the  one  I  want. 

Shake  out  carols! 

Solitary  here,  the  night's  carols!  100 

Carols  of  lonesome  love!  death's  carols! 

Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon! 

0  under  that  moon  where  she  droops  almost  down  into  the  seal 

0  reckless,  despairing  carols. 

But  soft!  sink  low!  105 

Soft!  let  me  just  murmur, 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment,  you  husky-noised  sea, 

For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding  to  me, 

So  faint,  I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen, 

But  not  altogether  still  for  then  she  might  not  come  immediately  to  me.      1 10 

Hither  my  love! 

Here  I  am!  here! 

With  this  just-sustain' d  note  I  announce  myself  to  you, 

This  gentle  call  is  for  you,  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  be  decoy' d  elsewhere;  115 

That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind,  it  is  not  my  voice, 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray, 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 


WALT  WHITMAN  451 


O  darkness!  O  in  vain! 

O  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful.  120 

O  brown  halo  in  the  sky  near  the  moon,  drooping  upon  the  sea/ 

O  troubled  reflection  in  the  seal 

0  throat!     O  throbbing  heart! 

And  I  singing  uselessly,  uselessly  all  the  night. 

O  past!  O  happy  life!  O  songs  of  joy  I  125 

In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields, 

Loved!  loved!  loved!  loved!  loved! 

But  my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  met 

We  two  together  no  more. 

The  aria  sinking,  130 

All  else  continuing,  the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing,  the  notes  of  the  bird  continuous  echoing, 

With  angry  moans  the  fierce  old  mother  incessantly  moaning, 

On  the  sands  of  Paumanok's  shore  gray  and  rustling, 

The  yellow  half-moon  enlarged,  sagging  down,  drooping,  the  face 

of  the  sea  almost  touching,  135 

The  boy  ecstatic,  with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  with  his  hair  the 

atmosphere  dallying, 
The  love  in  the  heart  long  pent,  now  loose,  now  at  last  tumultu- 

ously  bursting, 

The  aria's  meaning  the  ears,  the  soul,  swiftly  depositing, 
The  strange  tears  down  the  cheeks  coursing, 

The  colloquy  there,  the  trio,  each  uttering,  140 

The  undertone,  the  savage  old  mother  incessantly  crying, 
To  the  boy's  soul's  questions  sullenly  timing,  some  drown'd  secret 

hissing, 
To  the  outsetting  bard. 

Demon  or  bird!  (said  the  boy's  soul) 

Is  it  indeed  toward  your  mate  you  sing?  or  is  it  really  to  me  ?         145 

For  I,  that  was  a  child,  my  tongue's  use  sleeping,  now  I  have  heard 

you, 

Now  in  a  moment  I  know  what  I  am  for,  I  awake, 
And  already  a  thousand  singers,  a  thousand  songs,  clearer,  louder, 

and  more  sorrowful  than  yours, 


452  AMERICAN  POEMS 

A  thousand  warbling  echoes,  have  started  to  life  within  me,  never 

to  die. 

O  you  singer  solitary,  singing  by  yourself,  projecting  me,  150 

O  solitary  me  listening,  never  more  shall  I  cease  perpetuating  you, 
Never  more  shall  I  escape,  never  more  the  reverberations, 
Never  more  the  cries  of  unsatisfied  love,  be  absent  from  me, 
Never  again  leave  me  to  be  the  peaceful  child  I  was  before  what 

there  in  the  night, 

By  the  sea,  under  the  yellow  and  sagging  moon,  155 

The  messenger  there  arous'd — the  fire,  the  sweet  hell  within, 
The  unknown  want,  the  destiny  of  me. 

0  give  me  the  clew  (it  lurks  in  the  night  here  somewhere) ! 
0  if  I  am  to  have  so  much,  let  me  have  more! 

A  word  then  (for  I  will  conquer  it),  160 

The  word  final,  superior  to  all, 

Subtle,  sent  up — what  is  it? — I  listen: 

Are  you  whispering  it,  and  have  been  all  the  time,  you 

sea- waves  ? 
Is  that  it  from  your  liquid  rims  and  wet  sands  ? 

Whereto  answering,  the  sea,  165 

Delaying  not,  hurrying  not, 

Whisper'd  me  through  the  night,  and  very  plainly  before  daybreak, 

Lisp'd  to  me  the  low  and  delicious  word  death, 

And  again,  death,  death,  death,  death; 

Hissing  melodious,  neither  like  the  bird  nor  like  my  arous'd 

child's  heart,  170 

But  edging  near,  as  privately  for  me,  rustling  at  my  feet, 
Creeping  thence  steadily  up  to  my  ears  and  laving  me  softly 

all  over, 
Death,  death,  death,  death,  death. 

Which  I  do  not  forget, 

But  fuse  the  song  of  my  dusky  demon  and  brother,  175 

That  he  sang  to  me  in  the  moonlight  on  Paumanok's  gray  beach, 

With  the  thousand  responsive  songs  at  random, 

My  own  songs  awaked  from  that  hour, 

And  with  them  the  key,  the  word  up  from  the  waves, 

The  word  of  the  sweetest  song  and  all  songs,  180 


WALT  WHITMAN  453 


That  strong  and  delicious  word  which,  creeping  to  my  feet    • 
(Or  like  some  old  crone  rocking  the  cradle,  swathed  in  sweet 

garments,  bending  aside), 
The  sea  whisper'd  me. 

1859. 


FEOM 

STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOK 

I  conn'd  old  times, 

I  sat  studying  at  the  feet  of  the  great  masters; 
Now,  if  eligible,  O  that  the  great  masters  might  return 
and  study  me. 

In  the  name  of  these  States  shall  I  scorn  the  antique  ? 

Why,  these  are  the  children  of  the  antique  to  justify  it.  5 

Dead  poets,  philosophs,  priests, 

Martyrs,  artists,  inventors,  governments  long  since, 

Language-shapers  on  other  shores, 

Nations  once  powerful,  now  reduced,  withdrawn,  or 

desolate, 
I  dare  not  proceed  till  I  respectfully  credit  what  you  have 

left  wafted  hither;  I0 

I  have  perused  it,  own  it  is  admirable  (moving  awhile 

among  it), 
Think  nothing  can  ever   be  greater,  nothing  can  ever 

deserve  more  than  it  deserves, 

Regarding  it  all  intently  a  long  while,  then  dismissing  it, 
I  stand  in  my  place  with  my  own  day  here. 

1860. 

I  HEAR  IT  WAS  CHARGED  AGAINST  ME 
I  hear  it  was  charged   against  me  that  I  sought  to  destroy 

institutions, 

But  really  I  am  neither  for  nor  against  institutions 
(What  indeed  have  I  in  common  with  them?  or  what  with  the 

destruction  of  them  ?) 
Only  I  will  establish  in  the  Mannahatta,  and  in  every  city  of  these 

States,  inland  and  seaboard, 


454  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  in  the  fields  and  woods,  and  above  every  keel  little  or  large 

that  dents  the  water,  s 

Without  edifices  or  rules  or  trustees  or  any  argument, 
The  institution  of  the  dear  love  of  comrades. 

1860. 

WHEN  I  HEARD  THE  LEARN'D  ASTRONOMER 

When  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer, 

When  the  proofs,  the  figures,  were  ranged  in  columns  before  me, 

When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  diagrams,  to  add,  divide,  and 

measure  them, 
When  I  sitting  heard  the  astronomer  where  he  lectured  with  much 

applause  in  the  lecture-room, 

How  soon  unaccountable  I  became  tired  and  sick,  5 

Till,  rising  and  gliding  out,  I  wander'd  off  by  myself, 
In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  from  time  to  time 
Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars. 

1865. 

PIONEERS!    O  PIONEERS 

Come,  my  tan-faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons  ready; 
Have  you  your  pistols  ?  have  you  your  sharp-edged  axes  ? 

Pioneers  1  O  pioneers! 

For  we  cannot  tarry  here;  5 

We  must  march,  my  darlings,  we  must  bear  the  brunt  of  danger, 
We  the  youthful  sinewy  races,  all  the  rest  on  us  depend, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

O  you  youths,  Western  youths, 

So  impatient,  full  of  action,  full  of  manly  pride  and  friendship,  10 

Plain  I  see  you,  Western  youths,  see  you  tramping  with  the  foremost, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Have  the  elder  races  halted  ? 
Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied  over  there  beyond 

the  seas  ? 
We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden  and  the  lesson,  15 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 


WALT  WHITMAN  455 


All  the  past  we  leave  behind, 

We  debouch  upon  a  newer  mightier  world,  varied  world; 
Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world  of  labor  and  the  march, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers!  20 

We  detachments  steady  throwing, 

Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes,  up  the  mountains  steep, 
Conquering,  holding,  daring,  venturing  as  we  go  the  unknown  ways, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

We  primeval  forests  felling,  25 

We  the  rivers  stemming,  vexing  we  and  piercing  deep  the  mines  within, 
We  the  surface  broad  surveying,  we  the  virgin  soil  up-heaving, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Colorado  men  are  we; 

From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great  sierras  and  the  high  plateaus,      30 
From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from  the  hunting  trail,  we  come, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

From  Nebraska,  from  Arkansas, 
Central  inland  race  are  we,  from  Missouri,  with  the  continental  blood 

intervein'd; 
All  the  hands  of  comrades  clasping,  all  the  Southern,  all  the  Northern,     35 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

O  resistless  restless  race! 

O  beloved  race  in  all!  O  my  breast  aches  with  tender  love  for  all! 
0  I  mourn  and  yet  exult,  I  am  rapt  with  love  for  all, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers!  40 

Raise  the  mighty  mother  mistress, 
Waving  high  the  delicate  mistress,  over  all  the  starry  mistress  (bend 

your  heads  all), 
Raise  the  fang'd  and  warlike  mistress,  stem,  impassive,  weapon'd 

mistress, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers  I 

See,  my  children,  resolute  children,  45 

JJy  those  swarms  upon  our  rear  we  must  never  yield  or  falter, 
/iges  back  in  ghostly  millions  frowning  there  behind  us  urging, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 


456  AMERICAN  POEMS 


On  and  on  the  compact  ranks, 

With  accessions  ever  waiting,  with  the  places  of  the  dead  quickly  fill'd,       so 
Through  the  battle,  through  defeat,  moving  yet  and  never  stopping, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

0  to  die  advancing  on! 

Are  there  some  of  us  to  droop  and  die  ?  has  the  hour  come  ? 
Then  upon  the  march  we  fittest  die,  soon  and  sure  the  gap  is  fill'd,          55 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

All  the  pulses  of  the  world, 

Falling  in  they  beat  for  us,  with  the  Western  movement  beat, 
Holding  single  or  together,  steady  moving  to  the  front,  all  for  us, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers!  60 

Life's  involv'd  and  varied  pageants, 
All  the  forms  and  shows,  all  the  workmen  at  their  work, 
All  the  seamen  and  the  landsmen,  all  the  masters  with  their  slaves, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

All  the  hapless  silent  lovers,  65 

All  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons,  all  the  righteous  and  the  wicked, 
All  the  joyous,  all  the  sorrowing,  all  the  living,  all  the  dying, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

1  too  with  my  soul  and  body, 

We,  a  curious  trio,  picking,  wandering  on  our  way,  70 

Through  these  shores  amid  the  shadows,  with  the  apparitions  pressing, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Lo,  the  darting  bowling  orb! 

Lo,  the  brother  orbs  around,  all  the  clustering  suns  and  planets, 
All  the  dazzling  days,  all  the  mystic  nights  with  dreams,  75 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

These  are  of  us,  they  are  with  us, 
Ml  for  primal  needed  work,  while  the  followers  there  in  embryo  wait 

behind; 
We  to-day's  procession  heading,  we  the  route  for  travel  clearing, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers!  80 


WALT  WHITMAN  457 


O  you  daughters  of  the  West  I 

O  you  young  and  elder  daughters!  O  you  mothers  and  you  wives! 
Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks  you  move  united, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers  1 

Minstrels  latent  on  the  prairies  85 

(Shrouded  bards  of  other  lands,  you  may  rest,  you  have  done  your 

work), 
Soon  I  hear  you  coming  warbling,  soon  you  rise  and  tramp  amid  us, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers  I 

Not  for  delectations  sweet, 

Not  the  cushion  and  the  slipper,  not  the  peaceful  and  the  studious,  90 

Not  the  riches  safe  and  palling,  not  for  us  the  tame  enjoyment, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Do  the  feasters  gluttonous  feast  ? 

Do  the  corpulent  sleepers  sleep  ?    have  they  lock'd  and  bolted  doors  ? 
Still  be  ours  the  diet  hard,  and  the  blanket  on  the  ground,  95 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Has  the  night  descended  ? 
Was  the  road  of  late  so  toilsome  ?  did  we  stop  discouraged  nodding  on 

our  way  ? 
Yet  a  passing  hour  I  yield  you  in  your  tracks  to  pause  oblivious, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers!  100 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet, 
Far,  far  off  the  daybreak  call — hark!  how  loud  and  clear  I  hear  it 

wind  I 

Swift!  to  the  head  of  the  army! — swift!  spring  to  your  places, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

1865. 

CAVALRY  CROSSING  A  FORD 

A  line  in  long  array  where  they  wind  betwixt  green  islands, 

They  take  a  serpentine  course,  their  arms  flash  in  the  sun — hark  to  the 

musical  clank; 
Behold  the  silvery  river,  in  it  the  splashing  horses,  loitering,  stop  to 

drink; 


458  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Behold  the  brown-faced  men,  each  group,  each  person,  a  picture;  the 

negligent  rest  on  the  saddles, 
Some  emerge  on  the  opposite  bank,  others  are  just  entering  the  ford — 

while,  5 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  snowy  white, 
The  guidon  flags  flutter  gayly  in  the  wind. 

1865. 

COME  UP  FROM  THE  FIELDS,  FATHER 

Come  up  from  the  fields,  father,  here  's  a  letter  from  our  Pete; 

And  come  to  the  front  door,  mother,  here  's  a  letter  from  thy  dear  son. 

Lo,  't  is  autumn; 

Lo,  where  the  trees,  deeper  green,  yellower  and  redder, 

Cool  and  sweeten  Ohio's  villages  with  leaves  fluttering  in  the  moderate 

wind,  5 

Where  apples  ripe  in  the  orchards  hang  and  grapes  on  the  trellis'd  vines. 
(Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  the  vines  ? 
Smell  you  the  buckwheat  where  the  bees  were  lately  buzzing  ?) 

Above  all,  lo,  the  sky  so  calm,  so  transparent  after  the  rain,  and  with 

wondrous  clouds; 
Below  too,  all  calm,  all  vital  and  beautiful,  and  the  farm  prospers  well.       10 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well; 

But  now  from  the  fields  come,  father,  come  at  the  daughter's  call, 

And  come  to  the  entry,  mother,  to  the  front  door  come  right  away. 

Fast  as  she  can  she  hurries,  something  ominous,  her  steps  trembling, 

She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth  her  hair  nor  adjust  her  cap.  15 

Open  the  envelope  quickly — 

O  this  is  not  our  son's  writing,  yet  his  name  is  sign'd, 

O  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear  son,  O  stricken  mother's  soul! 

All  swims  before  her  eyes,  flashes  with  black,  she  catches  the  main 

words  only, 
Sentences  broken:    gunshot  wound  in  the  breast — cavalry  skirmish — 

taken  to  hospital —  20 

At  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better. 

Ah  now  the  single  figure  to  me, 

Amid  all  teeming  and  wealthy  Ohio  with  all  its  cities  and  farms, 

Sickly  white  in  the  face  and  dull  in  the  head,  very  faint, 

By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans.  25 


WALT  WHITMAN  459 


Grieve  not  so,  dear  mother  (the  just-grown  daughter  speaks  through 

her  sobs, 

The  little  sisters  huddle  around  speechless  and  dismay'd); 
See,  dearest  mother,  the  letter  says  Pete  will  soon  be  better. 

AJas,  poor  boy,  he  will  never  be  better  (nor  may-be  needs  to  be  better, 

that  brave  and  simple  soul); 

While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door  he  is  dead  already,  30 

The  only  son  is  dead. 

But  the  mother  needs  to  be  better; 

She  with  thin  form  presently  drest  in  black, 

By  day  her  meals  untouch'd,  then  at  night  fitfully  sleeping,  often 
waking, 

In  the  midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing  with  one  deep  longing,          35 

0  that  she  might  withdraw  unnoticed,  silent  from  life  escape  and  with 
draw, 

To  follow,  to  seek,  to  be  with  her  dear  dead  son. 

1865. 

VIGIL  STRANGE  I  KEPT  ON  THE  FIELD  ONE  NIGHT 

Vigil  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night. 

When  you,  my  son  and  my  comrade,  dropt  at  my  side  that  day, 

One  look  I  but  gave,  which  your  dear  eyes  return'd  with  a  look  I  shall 

never  forget; 
One  touch  of  your  hand  to  mine,  O  boy,  reach'd  up  as  you  lay  on  the 

ground; 

Then  onward  I  sped  in  the  battle,  the  even-contested  battle,  5 

Till  late  in  the  night,  reliev'd,  to  the  place  at  last  again  I  made  my  way, 
Found  you  in  death  so  cold,  dear  comrade,  found  your  body,  son  of 

responding  kisses  (never  again  on  earth  responding), 
Bared  your  face  in  the  starlight;    curious  the  scene,  cool  blew  the 

moderate  night-wind. 
Long  there  and  then  in  vigil  I  stood,  dimly  around  me  the  battle-field 

spreading, 

Vigil  wondrous  and  vigil  sweet,  there  in  the  fragrant  silent  night,  10 

But  not  a  tear  fell,  not  even  a  long-drawn  sigh;  long,  long  I  gazed, 
Then  on  the  earth  partially  reclining  sat  by  your  side,  leaning  my  chin 

in  my  hands, 
Passing  sweet  hours,  immortal  and  mystic  hours  with  you,  dearest 

comrade — not  a  tear,  not  a  word, 


460  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Vigil  of  silence,  love  and  death,  vigil  for  you,  my  son  and  my  soldier, 

As  onward  silently  stars  aloft,  eastward  new  ones  upward  stole,  15 

Vigil  final  for  you,  brave  boy  (I  could  not  save  you,  swift  was  your 

death; 
I  faithfully  loved  you  and  cared  for  you  living;  I  think  we  shall  surely 

meet  again). 

Till  at  latest  lingering  of  the  night,  indeed  just  as  the  dawn  appear'd, 
My  comrade  I  wrapt  in  his  blanket,  envelop'd  well  his  form, 
Folded  the  blanket  well,  tucking  it  carefully  over  head  and  carefully 

under  feet,  20 

And  there  and  then  and  bathed  by  the  rising  sun,  my  son  in  his  grave, 

in  his  rude-dug  grave,  I  deposited, 

Ending  my  vigil  strange  with  that,  vigil  of  night  and  battle-field  dim, 
Vigil  for  boy  of  responding  kisses  (never  again  on  earth  responding), 
Vigil  for  comrade  swiftly  slain,  vigil  I  never  forget,  how  as  day 

brighten'd 

I  rose  from  the  chill  ground  and  folded  my  soldier  well  in  his  blanket         25 
And  buried  him  where  he  fell. 

1865. 

A  MARCH  IN  THE  RANKS  HARD-PREST  AND  THE  ROAD 

UNKNOWN 

A  march  in  the  ranks  hard-prest,  and  the  road  unknown, 
A  route  through  a  heavy  wood  with  mufHed  steps  in  the  darkness, 
Our  army  foil'd  with  loss  severe,  and  the  sullen  remnant  retreating, 
Till  after  midnight  glimmer  upon  us  the  lights  of  a  dim-lighted  build 
ing, 
We  come  to  an  open  space  in  the  woods,  and  halt  by  the  dim-lighted 

building;  5 

'T  is  a  large  old  church  at  the  crossing  roads,  now  an  impromptu 

hospital. 
Entering  but  for  a  minute,  I  see  a  sight  beyond  all  the  pictures  and 

poems  ever  made: 
Shadows  of  deepest,  deepest  black,  just  lit  by  moving  candles  and 

lamps, 
And  by  one  great  pitchy  torch,  stationary,  with  wild  red  flame  and 

clouds  of  smoke; 
By  these,  crowds,  groups  of  forms  vaguely  I  see  on  the  floor,  some  in 

the  pews  laid  down,  10 

At  my  feet  more  distinctly  a  soldier,  a  mere  lad,  in  danger  of  bleeding 

to  death  (he  is  shot  in  the  abdomen); 


WALT  WHITMAN  461 


I  stanch  the  blood  temporarily  (the  youngster's  face  is  white  as  a  lily). 
Then  before  I  depart  I  sweep  my  eyes  o'er  the  scene,  fain  to  absorb  it 

all: 
Faces,  varieties,  postures  beyond  description,  most  in  obscurity,  some 

of  them  dead, 
Surgeons  operating,  attendants  holding  lights,  the  smell  of  ether,  the 

odor  of  blood,  15 

The  crowd,  O  the  crowd  of  the  bloody  forms,  the  yard  outside  also 

fill'd, 
Some  on  the  bare  ground,  some  on  planks  or  stretchers,  some  in  the 

death-spasm  sweating, 

An  occasional  scream  or  cry,  the  doctor's  shouted  orders  or  calls, 
The  glisten  of  the  little  steel  instruments  catching  the  glint  of  the 

torches — 

These  I  resume  as  I  chant,  I  see  again  the  forms,  I  smell  the  odor;  20 

Then  hear  outside  the  orders  given,  Fall  in,  my  men,  fall  in. 
But  first  I  bend  to  the  dying  lad,  his  eyes  open,  a  half-smile  gives  he  me, 
Then  the  eyes  close,  calmly  close,  and  I  speed  forth  to  the  darkness, 
Resuming,  marching,  ever  in  darkness  marching,  on  in  the  ranks, 
The  unknown  road  still  marching.  25 

1865. 

O  CAPTAIN  1  MY  CAPTAIN 

O  Captain!  my  Captain  1  our  fearful  trip  is  done; 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won; 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring. 

But  O  heart!  heart!  heart!  5 

O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  nse  up  and  hear  the  bells; 

Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills —          i  o 

For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding — 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning. 
Here,  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck  15 

You  Ve  fallen  cold  and  dead. 


462  AMERICAN  POEMS 


My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will. 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and  done; 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won.  20 

Exult,  O  shores!  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

1865. 

WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOORYARD  BLOOM'D 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 

And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in  the  night, 

I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning  spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring: 

Lilac  blooming  perennial,  and  drooping  star  in  the  west,  5 

And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

O  powerful  western  fallen  star! 

O  shades  of  night — O  moody,  tearful  night! 

O  great  star  disappear'd — O  the  black  murk  that  hides  the  star! 

O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless — O  helpless  soul  of  me!  10 

O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my  soul. 

In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house,  near  the  whitewash 'd 

palings, 
Stands  the  lilac-bush  tall-growing  with  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich 

green, 
With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with  the  perfume 

strong  I  love, 

With  every  leaf  a  miracle — and  from  this  bush  in  the  door-yard,  15 

With  delicate-color'd  blossoms  and  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 
A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 

In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary  the  thrush,  20 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settlements, 

Sings  by  himself  a  song; 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life  (for  well,  dear  brother,  I  know, 

If  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would'st  surely  die).  21 


WALT  WHITMAN  463 


Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 

Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  thj  violets  peep'd 

from  the  ground,  spotting  the  gray  debris, 
Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes,  passing  the  endless 

grass, 
Passing  the  yellow-spear'd  wheat,  every  grain  from  its  shroud  in  the 

dark-brown  fields  uprisen, 

Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the  orchards,  30 

Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 

Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 

Through  day  and  night,  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the  land, 

With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags,  with  the  cities  draped  in  black,      35 

With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crape-veil'd  women 

standing, 

With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaus  of  the  night, 
With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of  faces  and  the 

unbared  heads, 

With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the  sombre  faces, 
With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand  voices  rising 

strong  and  solemn,  40 

With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges  pour'd  around  the  coffin, 
The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs — where  amid  these 

you  journey, 

With  the  tolling  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang, 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac.  45 

(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone; 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring, 

For,  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  song  for  you,  O  sane 

and  sacred  death. 
All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies;  50 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac,  that  blooms  the  first, 
Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes, 
With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you, 
For  you  and  the  coffins  all  of  you,  O  death.) 

0  western  orb  sailing  the  heaven,  5C 

Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as  a  month  since  I  walk'd, 


464  AMERICAN  POEMS 


As  I  walk'd  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 

As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell  as  you  bent  to  me  night  after 
night, 

As  you  droop'd  from  the  sky  low  down  as  if  to  my  side  (while  the 
other  stars  all  look'd  on), 

As  we  wander'd  together  the  solemn  night  (for  something  I  know 

not  what,  kept  me  from  sleep),  60 

As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the  west  how  full 
you  were  of  woe, 

As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  breeze  in  the  cool  trans 
parent  night, 

As  I  watch'd  where  you  pass'd  and  was  lost  in  the  netherward  black 
of  the  night, 

As  my  soul  in  its  trouble  dissatisfied  sank,  as  where  you,  sad  orb, 

Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone.  65 

Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp, 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender;   I  hear  your  notes,  I  hear  your  call, 

1  hear,  I  come  presently,  I  understand  you; 

But  a  moment  I  linger,  for  the  lustrous  star  has  detain'd  me, 

The  star,  my  departing  comrade,  holds  and  detains  me.  70 

0  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved  ? 

And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that  has  gone  ? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love  ? 
Sea-winds  blown  from  east  and  west, 
Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from  the  Western  sea,  till 

there  on  the  prairies  meeting,  75 

These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 

1  '11  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls  ? 

And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on  the  walls, 

To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love?  8c 

Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and  homes, 

With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown,  and  the  gray  smoke  lucid 

and  bright, 
With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous,  indolent,  sinking  sun, 

burning,  expanding  the  air, 
With  the  fresh  sweet  herbage  under  foot,  and  the  pale  green  leaves 

of  the  trees  prolific, 


WALT  WHITMAN  465 


In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the  river,  with  a 

wind-dapple  here  and  there,  85 

With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many  a  line  against  the  sky, 

and  shadows, 
And   the   city  at   hand   with  dwellings   so  dense,  and  stacks  of 

chimneys, 
And  all  the  scenes  of  life  and  the  workshops  and  the  workmen 

homeward  returning. 

Lo,  body  and  soul — this  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and  hurrying 

tides,  and  the  ships,  90 

The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North  in  the  light, 

Ohio's  shores  and  flashing  Missouri, 

And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  cover 'd  with  grass  and  com. 
Lo,  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty, 
The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just-felt  breezes, 

The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light,  0.5 

The  miracle  spreading  bathing  all,  the  fulfill'd  noon, 
The  coming  eve  delicious,  the  welcome  night  and  the  stars, 
Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  you  gray-brown  bird, 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses,  pour  your  chant  from  the 

bushes,  100 

Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 
Sing  on,  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song, 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 
O  liquid  and  free  and  tender  1 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul — O  wondrous  singer!  105 

You  only  I  hear — yet  the  star  holds  me  (but  will  soon  depart), 
Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odor  holds  me. 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day  and  look'd  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and  the  fields  of  spring  and 

the  farmers  preparing  their  crops, 
In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land  with  its  lakes  and 

forests,  no 

In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty  (after  the  perturb 'd  winds  and  the 

storms), 
Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon  swift  passing,  and  the 

voices  of  children  and  women, 


466  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  many-moving  sea-tides,  and  I  saw  the  ships  how  they  sail'd, 
And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the  fields  all 

busy  with  labor, 
And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went  on,  each  with 

its  meals  and  minutia  of  daily  usages,  i  ]  5 

And  the  streets  how  their  throbbings  throbb'd,  and  the  cities  pent — 

lo,  then  and  there, 
Falling  upon  them  all  and  among  them  all,  enveloping  me  with  the 

rest, 

Appear'd  the  cloud,  appear'd  the  long  black  trail, 
And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowledge  of  death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side  of  me,  120 

And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking  the  other  side  of  me, 

And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions,  and  as  holding  the  hands 

of  companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night  that  talks  not, 
Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the  swamp  in  the 

dimness, 

To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  ghostly  pines  so  still.  125 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me, 
The  gray-brown  bird  I  know  receiv'd  us  comrades  three, 
And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death  and  a  verse  for  him  I  love. 
From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  still,  130 

Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 
And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 
As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades  in  the  night, 
And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 

Come,  lovely  and  soothing  death,  135 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 
In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 
Sooner  or  later,  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious,  140 

And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise!  praise!  praise! 

For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome  ? 


WALT  WHITMAN  467 


Tlten  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all,  145 

/  bring  thee  a  song  that,  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  unfalteringly. 

Approach,  strong  deliveress; 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them,  I  joyously  sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 

Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  death.  150 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose,  saluting  thee,  adornments  and  f eastings  for 

thee; 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high-spread  sky  are  .fitting, 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star,  155 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  whose  voice  I  know, 
And  the  soul  turning  to  thee,  O  vast  and  well-veil'd  death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad  fields  and  the 

prairies  wide,  160 

Over  the  dense-packed  cities  all  and  the  teeming  wharves  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee,  0  death. 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 

With  pure  deliberate  notes  spreading,  filling  the  night,  165 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp-perfume, 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night; 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed, 

As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions.  170 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags; 

Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierc'd  with  missiles 

I  saw  them, 
And  carried   hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and   torn  and 

bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs  (and  all  in  silence),     175 


468  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  the  staffs  all  splinter'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them, 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers  of  the  war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought:  180 

They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffer'd  not; 

The  living  remain'd  and  suffer'd,  the  mother  suffer'd, 

And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade  suffer'd, 

And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffer'd. 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night,  185 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands, 
Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying  song  of  my  soul, 
Victorious  song,  death's  outlet  song,  yet  varying  ever-altering  song, 
As  low  and  wailing  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and  falling,  flooding  the 

night, 
Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warning,  and  yet  again 

bursting  with  joy,  190 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of  the  heaven, 
As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from  recesses, 
Passing,  I  leave  thee,  lilac  with  heart-shaped  leaves, 
I  leave  thee  there  in  the  door-yard,  blooming,  returning  with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee,  195 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the  west,  communing 

with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out  of  the  night, 

The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown  bird, 

And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my  soul,  200 

With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star  with  the  countenance  full  of 

woe, 

With  the  holders  holding  my  hand,  nearing  the  call  of  the  bird, 
Comrades  mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory  ever  to  keep, 

for  the  dead  I  loved  so  well, 
For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands — and  this 

for  his  dear  sake, 

Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my  soul,  205 

There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and  dim. 

1865. 


WALT  WHITMAN  469 


ONE'S-SELF  I  SING 

One's-Self  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person, 

Yet  utter  the  word  Democratic,  the  word  En-Masse. 

Of  physiology  from  top  to  toe  I  sing: 

Not  physiognomy  alone  nor  brain  alone  is  worthy  for  the 

Muse;  I  say  the  Form  complete  is  worthier  far. 
The  Female  equally  with  the  Male  I  sing.  5 

Of  Life  immense  in  passion,  pulse,  and  power, 
Cheerful,  for  freest  action  form'd  under  the  laws  divine, 
The  Modern  Man  I  sing. 

1867. 

WHISPERS  OF  HEAVENLY  DEATH 

Whispers  of  heavenly  death  murmur'd  I  hear, 

Labial  gossip  of  night,  sibilant  chorals, 

Footsteps  gently  ascending,  mystical  breezes  wafted  soft 

and  low, 
Ripples  of  unseen  rivers,  tides  of  a  current  flowing,  forever 

flowing 
(Or  is  it  the  plashing  of  tears?  the  measureless  waters  of 

human  tears?)  5 

I  see,  just  see  skyward,  great  cloud-masses; 
Mournfully,  slowly  they  roll,  silently  swelling  and  mixing, 
With  at  times  a  half-dimm'd  sadden'd  far-off  star, 
Appearing  and  disappearing. 

(Some  parturition  rather,  some  solemn  immortal  birth;  10 

On  the  frontiers  to  eyes  impenetrable, 
Some  soul  is  passing  over.) 

1868. 

THE  SINGER  IN  THE  PRISON 

O  sight  of  pity,  shame  and  dole! 
O  fearful  thought — a  convict  soul. 

Rang  the  refrain  along  the  hall,  the  prison, 
Rose  to  the  roof,  the  vaults  of  heaven  above, 
Pouring  in  floods  of  melody  in  tones  so  pensive  sweet  and  strong 
the  like  whereof  was  never  heard, 


470  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Reaching  the  far-off  sentry  and  the  armed  guards,  who  ceas'd 

their  pacing, 
Making  the  hearer's  pulses  stop  for  ecstasy  and  awe. 

The  sun  was  low  in  the  west  one  winter  day 

When  down  a  narrow  aisle  amid  the  thieves  and  outlaws  of  the 

land 
(There   by    the    hundreds   seated,    sear-faced    murderers,    wily 

counterfeiters,  10 

Gather'd  to  Sunday  church  in  prison  walls,  the  keepers  round 
Plenteous,  well-armed,  watching  with  vigilant  eyes) 
Calmly  a  lady  walk'd,  holding  a  little  innocent  child  by  either 

hand; 

Whom  seating  on  their  stools  beside  her  on  the  platform, 
She,   first  preluding  with   the  instrument  a  low  and   musical 

prelude,  15 

In  voice  surpassing  all,  sang  forth  a  quaint  old  hymn. 

A  soul  confined  by  bars  and  bands 

Cries,  "Help!  O  help!"  and  wrings  her  hands; 

Blinded  her  eyes,  bleeding  her  breast, 

Nor  pardon  finds  nor  balm  of  rest.  20 

Ceaseless  she  paces  to  and  fro: 
O  heart-sick  days!    O  nights  of  woe! 
Nor  hand  of  friend,  nor  living  face, 
Nor  favor  comes,  nor  word  of  grace. 

"It  was  not  I  that  sinn'd  the  sin:  25 

The  ruthless  body  dragg'd  me  in; 
Though  long  I  strove  courageously, 
The  body  was  too  much  for  me." 

Dear  prison'd  soul,  bear  up  a  space, 

For  soon  or  late  the  certain  grace;  30 

To  set  thee  free  and  bear  thee  home 

The  heavenly  pardoner,  death,  shall  come. 

Convict  no  more,  nor  shame  nor  dolet 
Depart — a  God-enfranchis'd  soull 

The  singer  ceas'd.  35 

One  glance  swept  from  her  clear  calm  eyes  o'er  all  those  upturn'd 
faces, 


WALT  WHITMAN  471 


Strange  sea  of  prison  faces,  a  thousand  varied,  crafty,  brutal, 

seam'd  and  beauteous  faces, 

Then,  rising,  passing  back  along  the  narrow  aisle  between  them, 
While  her  gown  touch'd  them,  rustling  in  the  silence, 
She  vanish 'd  with  her  children  in  the  dusk;  40 

While  upon  all,  convicts  and  armed  keepers  ere  they  stirr'd 
(Convict  forgetting  prison,  keeper  his  loaded  pistol), 
A  hush  and  pause  fell  down  a  wondrous  minute, 
With  deep  half-stifled  sobs  and  sound  of  bad  men  bow'd  and 

moved  to  weeping, 

And  youth's  convulsive  breathings,  memories  of  home,  45 

The  mother's  voice  in  lullaby,  the  sister's  care,  the  happy 

childhood, 

The  long-pent  spirit  rous'd  to  reminiscence; 
A  wondrous  minute  then — but  after  in  the  solitary  night,  to  many. 

many  there, 
Years  after,  even  in  the  hour  of  death,  the  sad  refrain,  the  tune, 

the  voice,  the  words 

Resumed,  the  large  calm  lady  walks  the  narrow  aisle,  50 

The  wailing  melody  again  the  singer  in  the  prison  sings. 
0  sight  of  pity,  shame  and  dole! 
0  fearful  thought — a  convict  soul. 

1869. 

IN  CABIN'D  SHIPS  AT  SEA 

In  cabin'd  ships  at  sea, 

The  boundless  blue  on  every  side  expanding, 

With  whistling  winds  and  music  of  the  waves,  the  large  imperious 

waves, 

Or  some  lone  bark  buoy'd  on  the  dense  marine, 

Where,  joyous,  full  of  faith,  spreading  white  sails,  5 

She  cleaves  the  ether  mid  the  sparkle  and  the  foam  of  day,  or 

under  many  a  star  at  night, 
By  sailors  young  and  old  haply  will  I,  a  reminiscence  of  the  land, 

be  read, 
In  full  rapport  at  last. 

Here  are  our  thoughts,  voyagers'  thoughts; 

Here  not  the  land,  firm  land,  alone  appears,  may  then  by  them  be 

said:  10 


472  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  sky  overarches  here,  we  feel  the  undulating  deck  beneath  our  feet, 

We  feel  the  long  pulsation,  ebb  and  flow  of  endless  motion; 

The  tones  of  unseen  mystery,  the  vague  and  vast  suggestions  of  the 

briny  world,  the  liquid-flowing  syllables, 

The  perfume,  the  faint  creeking  of  the  cordage,  the  melancholy  rhythm, 
The  boundless  vista  and  the  horizon  far  and  dim  are  all  here,  15 

And  this  is  ocean's  poem. 

Then  falter  not,  O  book,  fulfil  your  destiny, 

You  not  a  reminiscence  of  the  land  alone, 

You  too  as  a  lone  bark  cleaving  the  ether,  purpos'd  I  know  not 

whither,  yet  ever  full  of  faith, 

Consort  to  every  ship  that  sails,  sail  you!  20 

Bear  forth  to  them  folded  my  love  (dear  mariners,  for  you  I  fold  it 

here  in  every  leaf); 
Speed  on,  my  book!  spread  your  white  sails,  my  little  bark, 

athwart  the  imperious  waves; 
Chant  on,  sail  on,  bear  o'er  the  boundless  blue  from  me  to  every 

sea 
This  song  for  mariners  and  all  their  ships. 

1870. 

YET,  YET,  YE  DOWNCAST  HOURS 

Yet,  yet,  ye  downcast  hours,  I  know  ye  also; 

Weights  of  lead,  how  ye  clog  and  cling  at  my  ankles, 

Earth  to  a  chamber  of  mourning  turns — I  hear  the  o'erweening, 

mocking  voice, 
Matter  is  conqueror — matter,  triumphant  only,  continues  onward. 

Despairing  cries  float  ceaselessly  toward  me,  5 

The  call  of  my  nearest  lover,  putting  forth,  alarm'd,  uncertain, 
The  sea  I  am  quickly  to  sail,  come  tell  me, 
Come  tell  me  where  I  am  speeding,  tell  me  my  destination. 

I  understand  your  anguish,  but  I  cannot  help  you; 

I  approach,  hear,  behold  the  sad  mouth,  the  look  out  of  the  eyes, 

your  mute  inquiry,  10 

W hither  I  go  from  the  bed  I  recline  on,  come  tell  me. 
Old  age,  alarm'd,  uncertain — a  young  woman's  voice,  appealing  to 

me  for  comfort; 
A  young  man's  voice,  Shall  I  not  escape? 

1870. 


WALT  WHITMAN  473 


TO  THE  MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm, 

Waking  renew'd  on  thy  prodigious  pinions 

(Burst  the  wild  storm  ?  above  it  thou  ascended'st, 

And  rested  on  the  sky,  thy  slave  that  cradled  thee), 

Now  a  blue  point,  far,  far  in  heaven  floating,  5 

As  to  the  light  emerging  here  on  deck  I  watch  thee 

(Myself  a  speck,  a  point  on  the  world's  floating  vast).- 

Far,  far  at  sea, 

After  the  night's  fierce  drifts  have  strewn  the  shore  with  wrecks, 

With  re-appearing  day  as  now  so  happy  and  serene,  10 

The  rosy  and  elastic  dawn,  the  flashing  sun, 

The  limpid  spread  of  air  cerulean, 

Thou  also  re-appearest. 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale  (thou  art  all  wings), 

To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and  hurricane,  15 

Thou  ship  of  air  that  never  furl'st  thy  sails, 

Days,  even  weeks,  untired  and  onward,  through  spaces,  realms  gyrating, 

At  dusk  that  look'st  on  Senegal,  at  morn  America, 

That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and  thunder-cloud, 

In  them,  in  thy  experiences,  had'st  thou  my  soul,  20 

What  joysl  what  joys  were  thine! 

1876. 

SPIRIT  THAT  FORM'D  THIS  SCENE 

(Written  in  Platte  Canon,  Colorado) 
Spirit  that  form'd  this  scene, 
These  tumbled  rock-piles  grim  and  red, 
These  reckless  heaven-ambitious  peaks, 
These  gorges,  turbulent-clear  streams,  this  naked  freshness, 
These  formless  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of  their  own,  5 

I  know  thee,  savage  spirit — we  have  communed  together; 
Mine  too  such  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of  their  own. 
Was  't  charged  against  my  chants  they  had  forgotten  art — 
To  fuse  within  themselves  its  rules  precise  and  delicatesse? 
The  lyrist's  measur'd  beat,  the  wrought-out  temple's  grace — column 

and  polish'd  arch  forgot?  10 

But  thou  that  revelest  here,  spirit  that  form'd  this  scene, 
They  have  remember'cl  thee. 

1879-  1881. 


474 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


WITH  HUSKY-HAUGHTY  LIPS,  O  SEA 

With  husky-haughty  lips,  O  sea! 

Where  day  and  night  I  wend  thy  surf-beat  shore, 

Imaging  to  ray  sense  thy  varied  strange  suggestions 

(I  see  and  plainly  list  thy  talk  and  conference  here), 

Thy  troops  of  white-maned  racers  racing  to  the  goal,  5 

Thy  ample,  smiling  face,  dash'd  with  the  sparkling  dimples  of  the  sun, 

Thy  brooding  scowl  and  murk,  thy  unloos'd  hurricanes, 

Thy  unsubduedness,  caprices,  wilfulness; 

Great  as  thou  art  above  the  rest,  thy  many  tears — a  lack  from  all 

eternity  in  thy  content 
(Naught  but  the  greatest  struggles,  wrongs,  defeats,  could  make  thee 

greatest — no  less  could  make  thee) ;  10 

Thy  lonely  state — something  thou  ever  seek'st  and  seek'st,  yet  never 

gain'st, 
Surely  some  right  withheld— some  voice,  in  huge  monotonous  rage,  oi 

freedom-lover  pent, 

Some  vast  heart,  like  a  planet's,  chain'd  and  chafing  in  those  breakers; 
By  lengthen'd  swell,  and  spasm,  and  panting  breath, 
And  rhythmic  rasping  of  thy  sands  and  waves,  15 

And  serpent  hiss,  and  savage  peals  of  laughter, 
And  undertones  of  distant  lion  roar 

(Sounding,  appealing  to  the  sky's  deaf  ear — but  now,  rapport  for  once, 
A  phantom  in  the  night  thy  confidant  for  once), 

The  first  and  last  confession  of  the  globe,  20 

Outsurging,  muttering  from  thy  soul's  abysms, 
The  tale  of  cosmic  elemental  passion, 
Thou  tellest  to  a  kindred  soul. 

1884. 


GOOD-BYE,  MY  FANCY 

Good-bye,  my  Fancy! 

Farewell,  dear  mate,  dear  love! 

I  'm  going  away,  I  know  not  where, 

Or  to  what  fortune,  or  whether  I  may  ever  see  you  again, 

So  Good-bye,  my  Fancy. 

Now  for  my  last — let  me  look  back  a  moment; 
The  slower  fainter  ticking  of  the  clock  is  in  me, 
Exit,  nightfall,  and  soon  the  heart-thud  stopping. 


KJCHARD  HENRY  STODDARD  475 

Long  have  we  lived,  joy'd,  caress'd  together; 

Delightful! — now  separation — Good-bye,  my  Fancy.  i° 

Yet  let  me  not  be  too  hasty: 

fx>ng  indeed  have  we  lived,  slept,  nlter'd,  become  really  blended  into 

one; 

Then  if  we  die  we  die  together  (yes,  we  '11  remain  one), 
If  we  go  anywhere  we  '11  go  together  to  meet  what  happens, 
May-be  we  '11  be  better  off  and  blither,  and  learn  something,  15 

May-be  it  is  yourself  now  really  ushering  me  to  the  true  songs  (who 

knows?), 
May-be  it  is  you  the  mortal  knob  really  undoing,  turning — so  now 

finally, 
Good-bye — and  hail!  my  Fancy. 

i8gi. 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

LEONATUS 

The  fair  boy  Leonaius, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 
Et  was  his  duty  evermore 
To  tend  the  Lady  Imogen; 

By  peep  of  day  he  might  be  seen  5 

Tapping  against  her  chamber  door, 
To  wake  the  sleepy  waiting-maid, 
Who  rose,  and  when  she  had  arrayed 
The  Princess,  and  the  twain  had  prayed 
With  pearled  rosaries  used  of  yore),  to 

They  called  him,  pacing  to  and  fro, 
And,  cap  in  hand,  and  bowing  low, 
He  entered,  and  began  to  feed 
The  singing  birds  with  fruit  and  seed. 

The  brave  boy  Leonatus,  15 

The  page  of  Imogen. 
He  tripped  along  the  kingly  hall, 

From  room  to  room,  with  messages; 
He  stopped  the  butler,  clutched  his  keys 
(Albeit  he  was  broad  and  tall),  20 


47&  AMERICAN  POEMS 


And  dragged  him  down  the  vaults,  where  wine 
In  bins  lay  beaded  and  divine, 
To  pick  a  flask  of  vintage  fine; 
Came  up,  and  clomb  the  garden  wall, 

And  plucked  from  out  the  sunny  spots  25 

Peaches  and  luscious  apricots, 
And  filled  his  golden  salver  there, 
And  hurried  to  his  lady  fair. 

The  gallant  Leonatus, 

The  page  of  Imogen.  ^ 

He  had  a  steed  from  Arab  ground; 

And  when  the  lords  and  ladies  gay 

Went  hawking  in  the  dews  of  May 
And  hunting  in  the  country  round, 

Artd  Imogen  did  join  the  band,  ^ 

He  rode  him  like  a  hunter  grand, 

A  hooded  hawk  upon  his  hand, 
And  by  his  side  a  slender  hound; 

But  when  they  saw  the  deer  go  by, 

He  slipped  the  leash  and  let  him  fly,  40 

And  gave  his  fiery  barb  the  rein 

And  scoured  beside  her  o'er  the  plain. 

The  strange  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 
Sometimes  he  used  to  stand  for  hours  45 

Within  her  room,  behind  her  chair; 

The  soft  wind  blew  his  golden  hair 
Across  his  eyes,  and  bees  from  flowers 

Hummed  round  him,  but  he  did  not  stir: 

He  fixed  his  earnest  eyes  on  her,  5O 

A  pure  and  reverent  worshipper, 
A  dreamer  building  airy  towers. 

But  when  she  spoke,  he  gave  a  start 

That  sent  the  warm  blood  from  his  heart 

To  flush  his  cheeks,  and  every  word  55 

The  fountain  of  his  feelings  stirred. 

The  sad  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 
He  lost  all  relish  and  delight 


RICHARD  HENRY  STOOD ARD  477 

For  all  things  that  did  please  before;  •     60 

By  day  he  wished  the  day  was  o'er, 
By  night  he  wished  the  same  of  night; 

He  could  not  mingle  in  the  crowd, 

He  loved  to  be  alone,  and  shroud 

His  tender  thoughts,  and  sigh  aloud,  65 

And  cherish  in  his  heart  its  blight. 

At  last  his  health  began  to  fail, 

His  fresh  and  glowing  cheeks  to  pale, 

And  in  his  eyes  the  tears  unshed 

Did  hang  like  dew  in  violets  dead.  70 

The  timid  Leonatus, 

The  page  of  Imogen. 

"What  ails  the  boy?"  said  Imogen. 

He  stammered,  sighed,  and  answered,  "Naught." 
She  shook  her  head,  and  then  she  thought  75 

What  all  his  malady  could  mean: 

It  might  be  love;  her  maid  was  fair, 
And  Leon  had  a  loving  air; 
She  watched  them  with  a  jealous  care, 
And  played  the  spy,  but  naught  was  seen.  80 

And  then  she  was  aware  at  first 
That  she,  not  knowing  it,  had  nursed 
His  memory  till  it  grew  a  part, 
A  heart  within  her  very  heart  I 

The  dear  boy  Leonatus,  85 

The  page  of  Imogen. 
She  loved,  but  owned  it  not  as  yet. 

When  he  was  absent  she  was  lone; 

She  felt  a  void  before  unknown, 
And  Leon  filled  it  when  they  met.  QO 

She  called  him  twenty  times  a  day, 

She  knew  not  why,  she  could  not  say; 

She  fretted  when  he  went  away, 
And  lived  in  sorrow  and  regret. 

Sometimes  she  frowned  with  stately  mien,  95 

And  chid  him  like  a  little  queen; 

And  then  she  soothed  him  meek  and  mild, 

And  grew  as  trustful  as  a  child. 


478  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  neat  scribe  Leonatus, 

The  page  of  Imogen.  100 

She  wondered  that  he  did  not  speak 
And  own  his  love,  if  love  indeed 
It  was  that  made  his  spirit  bleed. 
And  she  bethought  her  of  a  freak 

To  test  the  lad:  she  bade  him  write  105 

A  letter  that  a  maiden  might, 
A  billet  to  her  heart's  delight; 
He  took  the  pen  with  fingers  weak, 
Unknowing  what  he  did,  and  wrote, 
And  folded  up  and  sealed  the  note;  no 

She  wrote  the  superscription  sage, 
"For  Leonatus,  Lady's  Page." 

The  happy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 

The  page  of  Imogen  no  more,  115 

But  now  her  love,  her  lord,  her  life, 
For  she  became  his  wedded  wife, 
As  both  had  hoped  and  dreamed  before. 
He  used  to  sit  beside  her  feet 

And  read  romances  rare  and  sweet,  120 

And  when  she  touched  her  lute  repeat 
Impassioned  madrigals  of  yore, 
Uplooking  in  her  face  the  while, 
Until  she  stooped  with  loving  smile 
And  pressed  her  melting  mouth  to  his,  125 

That  answered  in  a  dreamy  bliss — 
The  joyful  Leonatus, 
The  Lord  of  Imogen. 

1852. 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS 

ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 
The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song: 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS  479 

There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong,  5 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn,  abide; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng, 
Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was,  but  a  fight;  10 

Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite? 

To  that  cold  Ghibeline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 

Of  Beauty  veiled  with  heavenly  light  15 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumae's  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 

The  rigid  front,  almost  morose 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within,  20 

Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 

Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 

Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look  25 

When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed 

With  no  companion  save  his  book 

To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade; 

Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim  guest,  30 

The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 

The  convent's  charity  was  rest. 

Peace  dwells  not  here — this  rugged  face 

Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose; 

The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace,  35 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 

Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 

When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line.  40 


480  AMERICAN  POEMS 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 

The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth: 

Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth; 

He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth;  45 

Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime; 

But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O,  Time,  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 

The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou:  50 

That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 

Is  Latium's  other  VIRGIL  now; 

Before  his  name  the  nations  bow: 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 

Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow,  55 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  DANTE'S  mind. 

1854. 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER 

FROM 

NOTHING  TO  WEAR 

Miss  Flora  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 

Has  made  three  separate  journeys  to  Paris; 
And  her  father  assures  me,  each  time  she  was  there, 

That  she  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris 

(Not  the  lady  whose  name  is  so  famous  in  history,  5 

But  plain  Mrs.  H.,  without  romance  or  mystery) 
Spent  six  consecutive  weeks  without  stopping 
In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping: 
Shopping  alone  and  shopping  together, 

At  all  hours  of  the  day  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather;  10 

For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman  can  put 
On  the  crown  of  her  head  or  the  sole  of  her  foot, 
Or  wrap  round  her  shoulders  or  fit  round  her  waist, 
Or  that  can  be  sewed  on  or  pinned  on  or  laced, 
Or  tied  on  with  a  string,  or  stitched  on  with  a  bow,  15 

In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below; 
For  bonnets,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and  shawls, 
Dresses  for  breakfasts  and  dinners  and  balls, 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER  481 

Dresses  to  sit  in  and  stand  in  and  walk  in, 

Dresses  to  dance  in  and  flirt  in  and  talk  in,  20 

Dresses  in  which  to  do  nothing  at  all, 

Dresses  for  winter,  spring,  summer,  and  fall, 

All  of  them  different  in  color  and  pattern — 

Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  crape,  velvet,  and  satin, 

Brocade,  and  broadcloth,  and  other  material  25 

Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethereal; 

In  short,  for  all  things  that  could  ever  be  thought  of, 

Or  milliner,  modiste,  or  tradesman  be  bought  of, 

From  ten-thousand-francs  robes  to  twenty-sous  frills; 
In  all  quarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every  store,  30 

While  M'Flimsey  in  vain  stormed,  scolded,  and  swore, 

They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed  the  bills. 

The  last  trip,  their  goods  shipped  by  the  steamer  Arago 

Formed,  M'Flimsey  declares,  the  bulk  of  her  cargo: 

Not  to  mention  a  quantity  kept  from  the  rest,  35 

Sufficient  to  fill  the  largest-sized  chest, 

Which  did  not  appear  on  the  ship's  manifest, 

But  for  which  the  ladies  themselves  manifested 

Such  particular  interest  that  they  invested 

Their  own  proper  persons  in  layers  and  rows  40 

Of  muslins,  embroideries,  worked  under-clothes, 

Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  and  such  trifles  as  those; 

Then,  wrapped  in  great  shawls,  like  Circassian  beauties, 

Gave  GOOD-BY  to  the  ship  and  GO-BY  to  the  duties. 

Her  relations  at  home  all  marvelled  no  doubt,  4*- 

Miss  Flora  had  grown  so  enormously  stout 

For  an  actual  belle  and  a  possible  bride; 
But  the  miracle  ceased  when  she  turned  inside  out, 

And  the  truth  came  to  light — and  the  dry  goods  beside, 
Which,  in  spite  of  Collector  and  Custom-house  sentry,  50 

Had  entered  the  port  without  any  entry. 

And  yet,  though  scarce  three  months  have  passed  since  the  day 
This  merchandise  went,  on  twelve  carts,  up  Broadway, 
This  same  Miss  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
The  last  time  we  met  was  in  utter  despair  55 

Because  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  wear!     .... 

Since  that  night,  taking  pains  that  it  should  not  be  bruited 
Ahroad  in  society,  I  've  institute 


482  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  course  of  inquiry,  extensive  and  thorough, 

On  this  vital  subject,  and  find,  to  my  horror,  60 

That  the  fair  Flora's  case  is  by  no  means  surprising, 

But  that  there  exists  the  greatest  distress 
In  our  female  community,  solely  arising 

From  this  unsupplied  destitution  of  dress, 
Whose  unfortunate  victims  are  filling  the  air  65 

With  the  pitiful  wail  of  "Nothing  to  wear." 
Researches  in  some  of  the  "Upper  Ten"  districts 
Reveal  the  most  painful  and  startling  statistics, 
Of  which  let  me  mention  only  a  few: 

In  one  single  house,  on  the  Fifth  Avenue,  70 

Three  young  ladies  were  found,  all  below  twenty-two, 
Who  have  been  three  whole  weeks  without  any  thing  new 
In  the  way  of  flounced  silks,  and,  thus  left  in  the  lurch, 
Are  unable  to  go  to  ball,  concert,  or  church; 
In  another  large  mansion  near  the  same  place  75 

Was  found  a  deplorable,  heart-rending  case 
Of  entire  destitution  of  Brussels  point  lace 

Oh,  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny  day 

Please  trundle  your  hoops  just  out  of  Broadway, 

From  its  whirl  and  its  bustle,  its  fashion  and  pride,  80 

And  the  temples  of  Trade  which  tower  on  each  side, 

To  the  alleys  and  lanes  where  Misfortune  and  Guilt 

Their  children  have  gathered,  their  city  have  built, 

Where  Hunger  and  Vice,  like  twin  beasts  of  prey, 

Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and  despair.  85 

Raise  the  rich,  dainty  dress  and  the  fine  broidered  skirt, 
Pick  your  delicate  way  through  the  dampness  and  dirt, 

Grope  through  the  dark  dens,  climb  the  rickety  stair 
To  the  garret  where  wretches,  the  young  and  the  old, 
Half-starved  and  half-naked  lie  crouched  from  the  cold.  90 

See  those  skeleton  limbs,  those  frost-bitten  feet 
All  bleeding  and  bruised  by  the  stones  of  the  street; 
Hear  the  sharp  cry  of  childhood,  the  deep  groans  that  swell 

From  the  poor  dying  creature  who  writhes  on  the  floor, 
Hear  the  curses  that  sound  like  the  echoes  of  Hell  95 

As  you  sicken  and  shudder  and  fly  from  the  door. 
Then  home  to  your  wardrobes,  and  say,  if  you  dare — 
Spoiled  children  of  Fashion — you  Ve  nothing  to  wear! 

1851 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  483 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar: 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes,  5 

Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go,  10 

Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven ! 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers — those  feet, 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels! 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers,  15 

Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet  1 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May: 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves;  20 

Like  sunlight  in  and  out  the  leaves 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine.  25 

How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  felll 
O,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds 
And  opening  springtide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours!  30 

O  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day! 

What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay! 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes,  35 


484  AMERICAN  POEMS 


So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise! 

And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more: 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before  40 

Was  love  so  lovely  born : 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn! 

And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes,  45 

For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise) — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain,  50 

We  said  Dear  Christ! — our  hearts  bent  down 
Like  violets  after  rain. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 

And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 

Were  rich  in  Autumn's  mellow  prime:.  55 

The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 

The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 

The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 

The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange; 

And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change  60 

In  little  Babie  Bell. 
Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face! 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too:  65 

We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now — 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame! 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal  70 

That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 

Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  485 

We  never  held  her  being's  key:  75 

We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things; 
She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity! 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees; 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent  80 

His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell. 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 

And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 

And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 

Like  sunshine  into  rain.  85 

We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 

"O,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God  I 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 

Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell;  90 

Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours: 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Babie  Belli 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands: 

And  what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell  ?  95 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair  I 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair; 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow; 

White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow,  too 

Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers, 
And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours. 

1856. 

BEFORE  THE  RAIN 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 

Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens —  5 

Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers! 


486  AMERICAN  POEMS 


We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The»white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind  —  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain! 


AFTER  THE  RAIN 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves,  5 

Antiquely-carven,  gray,  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye: 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 

A  globe  of  gold,  a  disc,  a  speck:  10 

And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 

With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 

1859. 

PAMPINEA 

AN   IDYL 

Lying  by  the  summer  sea 
I  had  a  dream  of  Italy. 

Chalky  cliffs  and  miles  of  sand, 
Mossy  reefs  and  salty  caves, 

Then  the  sparkling  emerald  waves,  5 

Faded;  and  I  seemed  to  stand, 
Myself  a  languid  Florentine, 
In  the  heart  of  that  fair  land. 
And  in  a  garden  cool  and  green, 

Boccaccio's  own  enchanted  place,  10 

I  met  Pampinea,  face  to  face  — 
A  maid  so  lovely  that  to  see 
Her  smile  is  to  know  Italy! 

Her  hair  was  like  a  coronet 

Upon  her  Grecian  forehead  set,  15 

Where  one  gem  glistened  sunnily 
Like  Venice,  when  first  seen  at  sea! 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICI1  487 

I  saw  within  her  violet  eyes 

The  starlight  of  Italian  skies, 

And  on  her  brow  and  breast  and  hand  20 

The  olive  of  her  native  land. 

And  knowing  how  in  other  times 
Her  lips  were  ripe  with  Tuscan  rhymes 
Of  love  and  wine  and  dance,  I  spread 
My  mantle  by  an  almond  tree,  25 

'And  here,  beneath  the  rose,"  I  said, 
'I  '11  hear  thy  Tuscan  melody  1" 

I  heard  a  tale  that  was  not  told 
In  those  ten  dreamy  days  of  old, 
When  Heaven  for  some  divine  offence,  30 

Smote  Florence  with  the  pestilence; 
And  in  that  garden's  odorous  shade, 
The  dames  of  the  Decameron, 
With  each  a  loyal  lover,  strayed, 
To  laugh  and  sing,  at  sorest  need,  35 

To  lie  in  the  lilies  in  the  sun 
With  glint  of  plume  and  silver  brede! 
And  while  she  whispered  in  my  ear, 
The  pleasant  Arno  murmured  near, 
The  dewy,  slim  chameleons  run  40 

Through  twenty  colors  in  the  sun; 
The  breezes  broke  the  fountain's  glass, 
And  woke  aeolian  melodies, 
And  shook  from  out  the  sceuted  trees 
The  lemon-blossoms  on  the  grass.  45 

The  tale?     I  have  forgot  the  tale! 
A  Lady  all  for  love  forlorn, 
A  rose-bud,  and  a  nightingale 
That  bruised  his  bosom  on  the  thorn; 
A  pot  of  rubies  buried  deep,  ^0 

A  glen,  a  corpse,  a  child  asleep, 
A  Monk,  that  was  no  monk  at  all, 
In  the  moonlight  by  a  castle  wall. 

Now  while  the  large-eyed  Tuscan  wove 
The  gilded  thread  of  her  romance —  55 

Which  I  have  lost  by  grievous  chance — 
The  one  dear  woman  that  I  love, 
Beside  me  in  our  seaside  nook, 
Closed  a  white  finger  in  her  book . 


488  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Half  vext  that  she  should  read,  and  weep  60 

For  Petrarch,  to  a  man  asleep! 

And  scorning  me,  so  tame  and  cold, 

She  rose,  and  wandered  down  the  shore, 

Her  wine-dark  drapery,  fold  in  fold, 

Imprisoned  by  an  ivory  hand;  65 

And  on  a  ledge  of  oolite,  half  in  sand, 

She  stood,  and  looked  at  Appledore. 

And  waking,  I  beheld  her  there 
Sea-dreaming  in  the  moted  air, 

A  siren  lithe  and  debonair,  70 

With  wristlets  woven  of  scarlet  weeds, 
And  oblong  lucent  amber  beads 
Of  sea-kelp  shining  in  her  hair. 
And  as  I  thought  of  dreams,  and  how 
The  something  in  us  never  sleeps,  75 

But  laughs,  or  sings,  or  moans,  or  weeps, 
She  turned — and  on  her  breast  and  brow 
I  saw  the  tint  that  seemed  not  won 
From  kisses  of  New  England  sun; 
I  saw  on  brow  and  breast  and  hand  80 

The  olive  of  a  sunnier  land! 
She  turned — and,  lo!  within  her  eyes 
There  lay  the  starlight  of  Italian  skies! 

Most  dreams  are  dark,  beyond  the  range 
Of  reason;  oft  we  cannot  tell  85 

If  they  are  born  of  heaven  or  hell: 
But  to  my  soul  it  seems  not  strange 
That,  lying  by  the  summer  sea, 
With  that  dark  woman  watching  me, 
I  slept  and  dreamed  of  Italy!  90 

1861. 


HENRY  TIMROD 

[The  selections  from  Timrod  are  reprinted  from  the  copyrighted  Memorial  edition  ol 
his  poems,  with  the  permission  of  the  B.  F.  Johnson  Publishing  Co.) 

THE  LILY  CONFIDANTE 

Lily,  lady  of  the  garden, 

Let  me  press  my  lip  to  thine: 
Love  must  tell  its  story,  Lily; 

Listen  thou  to  mine. 


HENRY  TIM  ROD 


Two  I  choose  to  know  the  secret —  5 

Thee,  and  yonder  wordless  flute: 
Dragons  watch  me,  tender  Lily, 

And  thou  must  be  mute. 

There  's  a  maiden,  and  her  name  is — 

Hist  I  was  that  a  rose-leaf  fell?  10 

See,  the  rose  is  listening,  Lily, 

And  the  rose  may  tell. 

Lily-browed  and  lily-hearted, 

She  is  very  dear  to  me. 
Lovely?  yes,  if  being  lovely  *5 

Is — resembling  thee. 

Six  to  half  a  score  of  summers 

Make  the  sweetest  of  the  "teens" — 
Not  too  young  to  guess,  dear  Lily, 

What  a  lover  means.  20 

Laughing  girl  and  thoughtful  woman, 

I  am  puzzled  how  to  woo — 
Shall  I  praise  or  pique  her,  Lily  ? 

Tell  me  what  to  do. 

"Silly  lover,  if  thy  Lily  25 

Like  her  sister  lilies  be, 
Thou  must  woo,  if  thou  wouldst  wear  her, 
With  a  simple  plea. 

"  Love  's  the  lover's  only  magic, 

Truth  the  very  subtlest  art;  3° 

Love  that  feigns  and  lips  that  flatter 
Win  no  modest  heart. 

"Like  the  dewdrop  in  my  bosom 

Be  thy  guileless  language,  youth: 
Falsehood  buyeth  falsehood  only;  35 

Truth  must  purchase  truth. 

"As  thou  talkest  at  the  fireside 
With  the  little  children  by, 
As  thou  prayest  in  the  darkness 

When  thy  God  is  nigh,  4° 


490  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"With  a  speech  as  chaste  and  gentle, 

And  such  meanings  as  become 
Ear  of  child  or  ear  of  angel, 
Speak,  or  be  thoti  dumb. 

"Woo  her  thus,  and  she  shall  give  thee  45 

Of  her  heart  the  sinless  whole, 
All  the  girl  within  her  bosom, 
And  her  woman's  soul." 

1858. 


CHARLESTON 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds 

The  City  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts  stern  and  proud,  5 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep — 
Dark  Sumter  like  a  battlemented  cloud 

Looms  o'er  'the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scar 

To  guard  the  holy  strand;  10 

But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war 

Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched 

Unseen  beside  the  flood, 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched,  15 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men 
Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 

As  lightly  as  the  pen.  20 

And  maidens  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  ot  him 

Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 


HENRY  TIMROD  491 


Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home,  25 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof  and  spire  and  dome 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 

Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports  30 

Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands 
And  Summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine  35 

From  some  frail,  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  Spring  dawn,  and  she,  still  clad  in  smiles 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles 

As  fair  and  free  as  now  ?  40 

We  know  not:  in  the  temple  of  the  Fate:. 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom; 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 
1 86 1  or  1862.  1862  ? 


SPRING 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there  's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 


492  AMERICAN  POEMS 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 

Of  Winter  in  the  land, 

Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn,  15 

Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 

That  age  to  childhood  bind, 

The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 

The  brown  of  Autumn  com.  20 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems  25 

Appear  some  azure  gems 

Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 

The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 

The  crocus  breaking  earth,  30 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green 

The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must  pass 

Along  the  budding  grass, 

And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South  35 

Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still,  there  's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 

Tn  the  sweet  airs  of  morn; 

One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 

Grow  purple  at  his  feet.  40 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant;  and  you  scarce  would  start  45 

If  from  a  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 
"Behold  mel     I  am  May  I" 


HENRY  TIM  ROD  493 


Ah,  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 

With  such  a  blessed  time?  50 

Who  in  the  west  wind's  aromatic  breath 

Could  hear  the  call  of  Death  ? 

Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 

The  voice  of  wood  and  brake 

Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil  charms,  55 

A  million  men  to  arms. 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 

Than  all  her  sunlit  rains 

And  every  gladdening  influence  around 

Can  summon  from  the  ground.  60 

Oh,  standing  on  this  desecrated  mould, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring  kneeling  :>n  the  sod 

And  calling,  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills,  65 

Upon  the  ancient  hills 
To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 
1862.  1862? 

I  KNOW  NOT  WHY,  BUT  ALL  THIS  WEARY  DAY 

1  know  not  why,  but  all  this  weary  day, 

Suggested  by  no  definite  grief  or  pain, 

Sad  fancies  have  been  flitting  through  my  brain: 

Now  it  has  been  a  vessel  losing  way, 

Rounding  a  stormy  headland;  now  a  gray  5 

Dull  waste  of  clouds  above  a  wintry  main; 

And  then  a  banner  drooping  in  the  rain, 

And  meadows  beaten  into  bloody  clay. 

Strolling  at  random  with  this  shadowy  woe 

At  heart,  I  chanced  to  wander  hither:  lo,  10 

A  league  of  desolate  marsh-land,  with  its  lush, 

Hot  grasses  in  a  noisome,  tide-left  bed, 

And  faint,  warm  airs  that  rustle  in  the  hush 

Like  whispers  round  the  bodv  of  the  dead. 


494  AMERICAN  POEMS 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

THE  MOCKING-BIRDS 

Oh,  all  day  long  they  flood  with  song 

The  forest  shades,  the  fields  of  light; 
Heaven's  heart  is  stilled  and  strangely  thrilled 

By  ecstasies  of  lyric  might; 
From  flower-crowned  nooks  of  splendid  dyes,  5 

Lone  dells  a  shadowy  quiet  girds; 
Far  echoes,  wakening,  gently  rise, 
And  o'er  the  woodland  track  send  back 

Soft  answers  to  the  mocking-birds. 

The  winds,  in  awe,  no  gusty  flaw  10 

Dare  breathe  in  rhythmic  Beauty's  face; 
Nearer  the  pale-gold  cloudlets  draw 

Above  a  charmed,  melodious  place: 
Entranced  Nature  listening  knows 

No  music  set  to  mortal  words,  15 

Nor  nightingales  that  woo  the  rose, 
Can  vie  with  these  deep  harmonies 

Poured  from  the  minstrel  mocking-birds. 

But,  vaguely  seen  through  gulfs  of  green, 

We  glimpse  the  plumed  and  choral  throng—  20 

Sole  poets  born  whose  instincts  scorn 

To  do  Song's  lowliest  utterance  wrong: 
Whate'er  they  sing,  a  sylvan  art, 

On  each  wild,  wood-born  note  conferred, 
Guides  the  hot  brain  and  hurtling  heart.  25 

Oh  magical  flame,  whence  pulsing  came 

This  passion  of  the  mocking-bird  ? 

Aye — pause  and  hark — be  still,  and  mark 
What  countless  grades  of  voice  and  tone 

From  bosk  and  tree,  from  strand  and  sea,  30 

These  small,  winged  genii  make  their  own: 

Fine  lyric  memories  live  again, 
From  tuneful  burial  disinterred, 

To  magnify  the  fiery  strain 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  495 

Which  quivering  trills  and  smites  the  hills  35 

With  rapture  of  the  mocking-bird. 

Aye — pause  and  hark — be  still,  and  mark 

How  downward  borne  from  Song's  high  clime 
(No  loftier  haunts  the  English  lark) 

They  revel,  each  a  jocund  mime:  40 

Their  glad  sides  shake  in  bush  and  brake; 

And  farm-girls,  bowed  o'er  cream  and  curd, 
Glance  up  to  smile,  and  think  the  while 
Of  all  blithe  things  that  flit  on  wings 

None  match  the  jovial  mocking-bird.  45 

When  fun  protrudes  gay  interludes 

Of  blissful,  glorious  unrestraint, 
They  run,  all  wild  with  motley  moods, 

Thro'  Mirth's  rare  gamut,  sly  and  quaint: 
Humors  grotesque  and  arabesque  50 

Flash  up  from  spirits  brightly  stirred; 
And  even  the  pedant  at  his  desk, 
Feeling  in  turn  his  spirit  burn, 

Laughs  with  the  loudest  mocking-bird. 

Oh,  all  day  long  the  world  with  song  55 

Is  flooded,  till  the  twilight  dim; 
What  time  its  whole  mysterious  soul 

Seems  rippling  to  the  conscious  brim: 
Arcadian  Eve  through  tranquil  skies 

Pastures  her  stars  in  radiant  herds;  60 

And  still  the  unwearied  echoes  rise, 
And  down  a  silvery  track  send  back 

Fond  greeting  to  the  mocking-birds. 

At  last,  fair  boon,  the  summer  moon 

Beyond  the  hazed  horizon  shines;  65 

Ah,  soon  through  night  they  wing  their  flight 

To  coverts  of  ^Eolian  pines: 
A  tremulous  hush — then  sweet  and  grand, 

From  depths  the  dense,  fair  foliage  girds, 
Their  love  notes  fill  the  enchanted  land;  70 

Through  leaf-wrought  bars  they  storm  the  stars, 

These  love  songs  of  the  mocking-birds. 


496  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  LITTLE  WHILE  I  FAIN  WOULD  LINGER  YET 

[Reprinted  from  the  copyrighted  1882  edition  of  Hayne's  poems,  with  the  permission  ol 
Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Co.] 

A  little  while  (my  life  is  almost  set!) 

I  fain  would  pause  along  the  downward  way, 
Musing  an  hour  in  this  sad  sunset  ray, 
While,  Sweet,  our  eyes  with  tender  tears  are  wet: 
A  little  hour  I  fain  would  linger  yet.  5 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet, 

All  for  love's  sake,  for  love  that  cannot  tire; 
Though  fervid  youth  be  dead,  with  youth's  desire, 

And  hope  has  faded  to  a  vague  regret, 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet.  10 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here: 

Behold,  who  knows  what  strange,  mysterious  bars 
'Twixt  souls  that  love  may  rise  in  other  stars  ? 
Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is  fair: 
A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here.  .        15 

A  little  while  I  yearn  to  hold  thee  fast, 

Hand  locked  in  hand,  and  loyal  heart  to  heart 
(O  pitying  Christ,  those  woeful  words  "We  part!"): 
So,  ere  the  darkness  fall,  the  light  be  past, 
A  little  while  I  fain  would  hold  thee  fast.  20 

A  little  while,  when  light  and  twilight  meet: 
Behind,  our  broken  years;  before,  the  deep 
Weird  wonder  of  the  last  unfathomed  sleep — 

A  little  while  I  still  would  clasp  thee,  Sweet; 

A  little  while,  when  night  and  twilight  meet.  25 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here: 

Behold,  who  knows  what  soul-dividing  bars 
Earth's  faithful  loves  may  part  in  other  stars  ? 
Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is  fair: 
A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here.  3° 


POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  497 

POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

THE  HEART  OF  LOUISIANA 

(BY  HARRIET  STANTON) 
Oh,  let  me  weep,  while  o'er  our  land 

Vile  discord  strides  with  sullen  brow, 
And  drags  to  earth  with  ruthless  hand 
The  flag  no  tyrant's  power  could  bowl 

Trailed  in  the  dust,  inglorious  laid,  5 

While  one  by  one  her  stars  retire, 
And  pride  and  power  pursue  the  raid 

That  bids  our  liberty  expire. 

Aye,  let  me  weep,  for  surely  Heaven 

In  anger  views  the  unholy  strife,  10 

And  angels  weep  that  thus  is  riven 

The  tie  that  gave  to  Freedom  life. 

I  cannot  shout,  I  will  not  sing 

Loud  paeans  o'er  a  severed  tie; 
And,  draped  in  woe,  in  tears  I  fling  15 

Our  State's  new  flag  to  greet  the  sky. 

I  can  but  choose,  while  senseless  zeal 

And  lawless  hate  is  clothed  with  power, 

The  bitter  cup;  but  still  I  feel 

The  sadness  of  this  parting  hour.  20 

I  know  that  thousand  hearts  will  bleed 

While  loud  huzzas  the  welkin  rend; 
The  thoughtless  crowd  will  shout,  "Secede!" 

But  ah,  will  this  the  conflict  end? 

Oh,  let  me  weep,  and  prostrate  lie  25 

Low  at  the  footstool  of  my  God; 
I  cannot  breathe  one  note  of  joy, 

While  yet  I  feel  His  chastening  rod. 

Sure  we  have  as  a  nation  sinned: 

Let  every  heart  its  folly  own,  30 

And  sackcloth  as  a  girdle  bind, 

And  mourn  our  glorious  Union  gone. 


498  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Sisters,  farewell!    You  know  not  half 

The  pain  your  pride,  injustice,  give; 
You  spurn  our  cause,  and  lightly  laugh,  35 

And  hope  no  more  the  wrong  shall  live. 

1861.  l861- 

DIXIE 
(BY  ALBERT  PIKE) 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  youl 
Up,  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you! 

To  arms!    To  arms!    To  arms,  in  Dixie  I 
Lo,  all  the  beacon-fires  are  lighted — 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united!  5 

To  arms!    To  arms!    To  arms,  in  Dixie! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie! 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 
For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 

And  live  or  die  for  Dixie!  10 

To  arms!    To  arms! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 
To  arms!    To  arms! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter,  15 

Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter: 
Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  alliance! 

Fear  no  danger  1    Shun  no  labor! 

Lift  up  rifle,  pike  and  sabre!  20 

Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 

Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder! 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 

At  your  cannons'  ringing  voices, 

For  faith  betrayed  and  pledges  broken,  25 

Wrong  inflicted,  insults  spoken! 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles! 

Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder: 

Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder!  3° 


POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  499 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter, 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation  35 

Secures  among  earth's  Powers  its  station: 
Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story  1 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 

Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness —  40 

To  arms! 

Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow, 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 

To  arms  I    To  arms!    To  arms,  in  Dixie  1 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie!  45 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 
For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 

And  live  or  die  for  Dixie! 
To  arms!    To  arms! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  I  50 

To  arms!    To  arms! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 
1861.  1861 ? 

MARYLANDl    MY  MARYLAND 
(BY  JAMES  R.  RANDALL) 

[Reprinted,  by  permission,  from  the  IQIO  edition  of  Randall's  poems,  copyrighted  by 
Matthew  Page  Andrews,  published  by  the  Whitehall  Publishing  Co.| 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore  5 

That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle  queen  of  yore, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland  1 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland!  10 

My  mother  State  1  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland! 


500  AMERICAN  POEMS 


For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 

And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel,  15 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland  1  20 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, — 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Come!  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day,  25 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey,  30 

With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Come!  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come!  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong,  35 

Maryland  1 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chaunt  thy  dauntless  slogan  song, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland!  40 

Dear  Mother!  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain —  45 

"Sic  semper!"  't  is  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  again, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland!  50 


POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  501 

For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland  I 

But  lo!  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek— 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake,  55 

Maryland  1    My  Maryland  1 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Mary  land  1 
Thy  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland!  60 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland  I 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder-hum,  65 

Maryland! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb — 
Huzza!  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum!  70 

She  breathes!  she  burns!  she  '11  come!  she  '11  come! 

Maryland  1    My  Maryland  1 
1861.  1864. 


BALTIMORE 
(BY  B.  RUSH  PLUMLY) 
Blood  of  loyal  Massachusetts, 

From  the  Rebel  ground  afar, 
Loudly  to  the  shaft  of  Bunker 

Cries  the  watchword  of  the  war — 

Cries  it  ever,  c 

"Baltimore!" 

Till  the  granite  breaks  to  speaking, 

Like  the  Theban  shaft  of  old, 
With  its  stony  lips  repeating 

To  the  Bay  State,  free  and  bold—  10 

Still  repeating, 

"Baltimore!" 


502 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Lo,  the  merchant  springs  to  battle 

From  his  Boston  counting-room, 
And  the  Lowell  weaver  rushes  15 

To  the  combat  from  the  loom- 
To  the  combat, 

Baltimore! 

From  the  mountain-men  of  Berkshire 

To  the  fishers  of  Cape  Ann,  20 

At  old  Bunker's  Memnon-summons 
They  are  rising  to  a  man — 
They  are  rising, 

Baltimore! 

Rebel  city,  thank  thy  true  men  25 

That  the  Pilgrim  sword  and  fire 
O'er  thy  highways,  red  with  murder, 
Still  hath  left  a  standing  spire — 
Thank  thy  true  men, 

Baltimore!  30 

Onward,  till  the  flag  is  flying 

O'er  the  cities  of  the  South ! 
In  the  breath  of  Freedom  breaking 
From  the  cannon's  iron  mouth — 

From  the  cannon,  35 

Baltimore! 
1861?  1864. 


THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES 
(BY  THOMAS  WILLIAMS) 

Brothers  of  free  descent  were  we,  and  native  to  the  soil, 
Knit  soul  to  soul  in  one  great  whole,  fruit  of  our  fathers'  toil; 
But  when  that  bond  of  love  was  rent,  the  cry  rose  near  and  far, 
'To  arms!  to  arms!  long  live  the  stripes!  we  know  no  'single  star'!" 
Chorus— Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  the  Union  Flag,  hurrah! 

Hurrah  for  the  Union  Flag,  that  knows  no  "single  star"! 

So  long  as  Southern  arrogance  forbore  to  touch  that  flag, 
Full  many  a  taunt  we  meekly  bore,  and  many  an  idle  brag; 


POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  503 


But  when. on  Sumter's  battlements  the  traitors  did  it  mar, 
We  flung  abroad  that  Union  Flag,  that  ne'er  shall  lose  a  star.  10 

Hurrah!  hurrah  1   for  the  Union  Flag,  hurrah  1 
Hurrah  for  the  Union  Flag,  that  ne'er  shall  lose  a  star! 

And  first  the  gallant  Keystone  State,  from  every  mountain-glen, 
From  hill  and  valley,  lake  and  town,  sent  down  her  stalwart  men; 
And  all  New  England  rose  amain,  as  blew  the  trump  of  war,  15 

And  raised  on  high  their  fathers'  flag  that  knows  no  single  star. 
Hurrah  1  etc. 

From  Saratoga's  tree-crown'd  heights,  from  Monmouth's  bloody  plain, 
The  men  of  York  and  Jersey,  too,  both  swelled  the  mustering  train, 
As  onward,  onward  fierce  it  rush'd  o'er  all  opposing  bars,  20 

To  punish  those  who  dared  insult  our  glorious  Stripes  and  Stars. 

Hurrah,  hurrah!  for  the  Union  Flag,  hurrah! 

Hurrah  for  the  Union  Flag,  with  all  its  Stripes  and  Stars! 

And  next  the  hardy  pioneers,  the  dauntless  and  the  brave, 

From  those  domains  by  Freedom  won,  that  never  knew  a  slave,  25 

Their  trusty  rifles  all  in  hand,  with  eye  and  port  like  Mars, 

Grasped  once  again  with  iron  hand  the  staff  that  bears  our  stars. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  the  Union  Flag,  hurrah! 

Hurrah  for  the  Union  Flag,  that  bears  our  Stripes  and 
Stars! 

And  from  the  bison's  prairie-haunts,  o'er  Mississippi's  flood,  30 

From  Minnehaha's  sparkling  falls,  from  Kansas'  land  of  blood, 
New  England's  youngest  scions  there  have  heard  the  din  of  wars, 
And  grasped  their  fathers'  ancient  brand  and  rear'd  their  stripes  and 

stars, 
And  belted  on  their  fathers'  brand  and  rear'd  their  fathers'  stars. 

Hurrah  I  etc.  35 

And  farther  still,  where  sunset-seas  bathe  California's  shore, 
And  grim  Sierras  darkly  frown  its  golden  treasures  o'er, 
Our  Western  Twins  have  heard  the  call,  and  answer'd  from  afar, 
'We  come!  we  come!  Rear  high  the  flag  that  knows  no  single  star!" 

Hurrah !  etc.  40 


504 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Missouri,  too,  her  garments  red,  and  little  Delaware 

With  heart  as  big  as  when  of  old  she  bore  a  lion's  share, 

Have  burst  the  chain  which  cramps  the  soul  and  all  that  's  noble  mars, 

And  wheel'd  in  line,  come  weal  or  woe,  beneath  the  Stripes  and  Stars. 

Hurrah !  etc.  4b 

And  "Maryland,  our  Maryland,"  though  called  with  "fife  and  drum" 
And  "old-line  bugle,"  too,  to  fight  against  the  "Northern  scum," 
Has  thought  of  Camden's  bloody  field  and  Eutaw's  iron  scars, 
And  lo  she  stands  where  erst  she  stood,  beneath  the  Stripes  and  Stars. 

Hurrah!  etc.  50 

Would  we  could  say  the  same  of  thee,  thou  dark  and  bloody  ground, 
Whose  sexless  sages,  false  of  heart,  a  way  of  peace  have  found! 
Shame  on  you!  No  half  faith  would  we!  Up,  gird  ye  for  the  wars, 
And  take  your  place  as  men  once  more  beneath  the  Stripes  and  Stars. 

Hurrah!  etc.  55 

From  thy  Medusa  glance  we  turn,  with  hearts  of  cheer  and  pride, 
To  West  Virginia,  virgin  rib,  torn  from  false  mother's  side: 
Daughter  of  strife,  fair  Freedom's  child,  thy  mountains  ring  afar 
With  echoing  shouts  for  that  best  flag  that  counts  another  star. 

Hurrah !  etc.  60 

And  more  't  will  count,  no  Pleiad  lost  of  all  that  shining  host, 
Though  dim  eclipse  have  veil'd  their  fires  and  traitors  loudly  boast; 
But  one  by  one  those  wand'ring  lights  shall  gem  our  heavens,  like 

Mars, 
And  all  the  nations  bless  our  stripes  and  coronet  of  stars! 

Hurrah!  etc.  65 

No  other  flag  shall  ever  float  above  our  homes  or  graves 
Save  yonder  blazing  oriflamme  that  flutters  o'er  our  braves; 
Its  rainbow-stripes  our  Northern  lights,  with  no  sinister  bars, 
Our  ancient  flag,  our  fathers'  flag,  our  glorious  Stripes  and  Stars! 

Hurrah!  etc.  70 

Then  bear  that  banner  proudly  up,  young  warriors  of  our  land, 
With  hearts  of  love  and  arms  of  faith  and  more  than  iron  hand! 
Down  with  the  Northern  renegade,  and  join  our  gallant  tars 
[n  rearing  high  in  victory  our  deathless  Stripes  and  Stars! 

Hurrah!  etc.  75 

1864. 


POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  505 

OHIO  FAIR  AND  FREE 

(BY  G.  w.  Y.) 
Ohio  fair,  thou  art  to  me 

More  dear  than  all  the  world  besides; 
I  love  thee  well,  from  Erie's  sea 

To  where  thy  peaceful  river  glides: 
Ohio,  fair,  for  thee  I  fight,  5 

And  those  in  peace  with  chee  to-night. 

Though  lovely  skies  are  o'er  my  head 

And  charming  vales  beneath  my  feet, 
Wild  Southern  scenes  around  me  spread, 

With  music  low,  enchanting,  sweet,  10 

I  backward  gaze,  with  sad  regret, 
To  thee,  my  home  I  can't  forget. 

Thy  rounded  hills,  though  often  white 
With  snow  or  bleak  mid-winter's  rain, 

Look  dear  to  me,  thrice  dear  to-night,  15 

As  I,  in  dreams,  return  again, 

And  loved  Ohio,  fair  old  home, 

O'er  boyhood's  haunts  in  pleasure  roam. 

Thy  valleys,  rent  by  babbling  brooks 

Which  music  make  the  whole  day  long,  20 

Thy  cots,  reared  up  in  sheltered  nooks, 

Where  sweetly  rings  gay  childhood's  song, 
These  all  are  mine,  Ohio  free, 
As  mem'ry  brings  them  back  to  me. 

The  old  brown  house  I  wept  to  leave,  25 

Beside  the  hills  so  grand  and  stern, 
Where  mother,  sisters,  morn  and  eve 

Ask  God  for  me  a  safe  return, 
Again  is  seen  as  last  beheld, 
When  sad  farewells  my  bosom  swelled.  30 

The  winding  path — I  know  it  well — 

Across  the  fields,  along  the  streams, 
Is  trod  again  as  heart-throbs  swell, 

To  meet  the  fond  one  of  my  dreams — 
The  one,  Ohio,  loved  by  me  35 

As  only  I  love  her  and  thee. 


506  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Thus,  thus,  a  soldier  prone  to  dream, 

I  think  of  scenes  once  loved  and  known, 

Though  miles  uncounted  intervene 

Between  me  and  my  dear  old  home:  40 

Thus,  thus,  Ohio  fair  and  free, 

A  son  of  thine  remembers  thee. 

Ohio  fair,  thou  art  to  me 

More  dear  than  all  the  world  besides; 
I  love  thee  well,  from  Erie's  sea  45 

To  where  thy  peaceful  river  glides: 
Ohio  fair,  for  thee  I  fight, 
And  those  in  peace  with  thee  to-night. 

1864. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  BULL  RUN 

Sadly  and  low, 
Hear  how  the  fitful  breezes  blow: 

They  are  sighing 

For  many  dying, 
As  the  night- winds  come  and  go.  5 

Fearfully  well 
A  tale  of  woe  these  night- winds  tell, 

A  tale  of  horror — 

Oh  that  the  morrow 
Could  its  fearfulness  dispel.  10 

OGodl    OGod! 
Dark  crimson  stains  are  on  the  sod; 

And  the  silvery  Run, 

In  the  setting  sun, 
Is  an  artery  filled  with  blood  1  15 

Roses  are  crushed, 
With  brothers'  blood  all  darkly  flushed: 

We  have  no  sighs 

For  the  flower  that  dies, 
So  many  hearts  in  death  are  hushed.  20 


POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  507 

Oh  night-winds,  moan! 
So  many  hurried  before  God's  throne, 

All  unshriven 

And  unforgiven — 
How  can  they  meet  the  Judge  alone  ?  25 

Soft  angel-eyes, 
Down  from  the  midnight's  cloudy  skies 

Pour  the  rain 

Till  the  crimsoned  plain 
F,oses  the  stain  of  this  sacrifice!  30 

Draw  close  the  pall 
Of  clouds  and  darkness  over  all! 

Dying  and  dead 

On  their  gory  bed 
Even  the  stoutest  hearts  appal.  35 

A  requiem  low 
Chant,  ye  pines,  as  the  night-winds  blow! 

The  coming  years 

Will  be  full  of  tears, 

And  many  hearts  will  break  with  woe.  40 

1 86 1.  1866. 

BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

(BY  JULIA  WARD  HOWE) 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord: 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift  sword; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps;  5 

They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and  damps; 
I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps: 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel: 
'  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall  deal;          10 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 


508  AMERICAN  POEMS 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment-seat; 
Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant,  my  feet!  15 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me: 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on.  20 

1861.  1862. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY 
(BY  JOHN  w.  PALMER) 

Come,  stack  arms,  men!     Pile  on  the  rails, 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright; 
No  matter  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We  '11  make  a  roaring  night. 

Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along,  5 

There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 
To  swell  the  brigade's  rousing  song 

Of  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

We  see  him  now — the  old  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew;  10 

The  shrewd,  dry  smile;  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "Blue-Light  Elder"  knows  'em  well: 
Says  he,  "That  's  Banks— he  's  fond  of  shell; 
Lord  save  his  soul!  we  '11  give  him — "  well,  15 

That 's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

Silence!  ground  arms!   kneel  all!   caps  off! 

Old  Blue-Light  's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention!     it  's  his  way.  20 

Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God — 
'Lay  bare  thine  arm,  stretch  forth  thy  rod! 

Amen ! "    That  's  "  Stonewall's  Way." 


POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 


509 


He  's  in  the  saddle  now.     Fall  in!  25 

Steady,  the  whole  brigade! 
Hill  's  at  the  ford,  cut  off— we  '11  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn  ?  ?o 

"Quick-step!  we  're  with  him  before  dawn!" 
That  's   "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning,  and,  by  George, 
Here  's  Longstreet  struggling  in  the  lists,  35 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  Yankees,  whipped  before, 
"Bay'nets  and  grape!"  hear  Stonewall  roar; 
"  Charge,  Stuart !     Pay  off  Ashby's  score ! " 

Is  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way."  40 

Ah,  maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall's  band! 
Ah,  widow,  read  with  eyes  that  burn 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 

Ah,  wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on!  45 

Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn. 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 

That  gets  in  "Stonewall's  Way." 
1862.  1864. 

FROM 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  REBEL 
(BY  JOHN  ESTEN  COOK) 

One  form  alone  remains  behind; 

And  lo,  the  figure  comes, 
Not  with  the  tinsel  Yankee  pomp 

Or  din  of  rolling  drums: 
Wrapped  in  his  old  gray  riding-cape,  5 

A  grizzled  chevalier, 
See  Lee,  our  spotless  Southern  Knight, 

"Without  reproach  or  fear"! 

We  know  him  well,  our  captain, 

The  foremost  man  of  all,        .  10 


5IO  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Whom,  tho*  the  red  Destruction  lower, 

No  peril  can  appal. 
We  know  how  he  struck  M'Clellan 

In  his  trebly  guarded  lines, 
And  Bully  Pope  sent  flying  15 

Through  the  dim  Manassas  pines. 

All  honour  to  the  Chieftain 

With  the  calm  undaunted  mien, 
The  honest  old  Virginia  blood, 

And  the  great  broad  soul  serene!  20 

Though  all  the  hounds  of  Ruin  howl, 

These  nations  shall  be  free, 
For  the  Red-Cross  flag  is  borne  aloft 

By  the  stalwart  hand  of  Lee. 

The  Chieftain  of  our  Chieftains,  25 

Virginia  claims  her  son; 
But  for  the  whole  great  Southern  race 

His  deeds  have  glory  won: 
For  the  blood  of  "Light  Horse  Harry" 

Burns  in  a  larger  soul,  30 

As  true  to  the  call  of  honour 

As  the  needle  to  the  pole. 

As  true!    And  who  but  loves  him, 

The  man  to  us  so  dear, 
Whom  soil  of  base  detraction  35 

Has  never  dared  come  near  ? 
Who  keeps  his  lordly  path  unmoved 

Through  calm  or  storm,  and  hears 
Even  now  the  calm  Historic  Voice 

From  out  the  future  years  1  4° 

1862.  1866- 

AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  WAR 
(BY  M.  w.  M.) 

O'ercome  with  weariness  and  care, 

The  war-worn  veteran  lay 
On  the  green  turf  of  his  native  land, 

And  slumbered  by  the  way. 


POEMS  OP  THE  CIVIL  WAR  511 

The  breeze  that  sighed  across  his  brow,  5 

And  smoothed  its  deepened  lines, 
Fresh  from  his  own  loved  mountains  bore 

The  murmur  of  their  pines, 
And  the  glad  sound  of  waters, 

The  blue  rejoicing  streams  10 

Whose  sweet  familiar  tones  were  blent 

With  the  music  of  his  dreams: 
They  brought  no  sound  of  battle's  din, 

Shrill  fife,  or  clarion, 
But  only  tenderest  memories  15 

Of  his  own  fair  Arlington; 
With,  perhaps,  a  grander  vision 

Which,  alas,  was  not  to  be, 
Of  a  new-born  banner  floating 

O'er  a  land  redeemed  and  free.  20 

While  thus  the  chieftain  slumbered 

Forgetful  of  his  care, 
The  hollow  tramp  of  thousands 

Came  sounding  through  the  air: 
With  ringing  spur  and  sabre  25 

And  trampling  feet  they  come. 
Gay  plume  and  rustling  banner, 

And  fife  and  trump  and  drum. 
But  soon  the  foremost  column 

Sees  where,  beneath  the  shade  30 

In  slumber  calm  as  childhood, 

Their  wearied  chief  is  laid; 
And  down  the  line  a  murmur 

From  lip  to  lip  there  ran, 
Until  the  stilly  whisper  35 

Had  spread  to  rear  and  van; 
And  o'er  the  host  a  silence 

As  deep  and  sudden  fell 
As  though  some  mighty  wizard 

Had  hushed  them  with  a  spell;  40 

And  every  sound  was  mufHed, 

And  every  soldier's  tread 
Fell  lightly  as  a  mother's 

Round  her  baby's  cradle-bed; 
And  rank  and  file  and  column  45 

So  softly  on  they  swept 


512  AMERICAN  POEMS 


It  seemed  a  ghostly  army 

Had  passed  him  as  he  slept: 
But  mightier  than  enchantment 

Was  that  whose  magic  wove  50 

The  spell  that  hushed  their  voices — 

Deepest  reverence  and  love. 

1866. 

CAVALRY-SONG 

(BY   ELBRIDGE   J.   CUTLER) 

The  squadron  is  forming,  the  war-bugles  play: 
To  saddle,  brave  comrades,  stout  hearts  for  a  frayl 
Our  captain  is  mounted — strike  spurs  and  away! 

No  breeze  shakes  the  blossoms  or  tosses  the  grain, 

But  the  wind  of  our  speed  floats  the  galloper's  mane  5 

As  he  feels  the  bold  rider's  firm  hand  on  the  rein. 

Lo,  dim  in  the  starlight  their  white  tents  appear! 
Ride  softly,  ride  slowly,  the  onset  is  near! 
More  slowly,  more  softly,  the  sentry  may  hear! 

Now  fall  on  the  Rebel — a  tempest  of  flame!  10 

Strike  down  the  false  banner  whose  triumph  were  shame! 
Strike,  strike  for  the  true  flag,  for  Freedom  and  Fame! 

Hurrah,  sheathe  your  swords!  the  carnage  is  done. 
All  red  with  our  valor,  we  welcome  the  sun. 
Up,  up  with  the  stars!  we  have  won!  we  have  won!  15 

1864. 

SHERIDAN'S  RIDE 

(BY   THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ) 

Up  from  the  south,  at  break  of  day/ 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door,/ 
The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and  roar,  5 

sf  Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more,  / 
And  Sheridan/twenty  miles  away. 


POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  513 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar/ 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled  10 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea,  uncontrolled/ 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town,  15 

A  good  broad  highway  leading  down; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 

Was  seen  to  passes  with  eagle  Jigjat/ 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need/  20 

He  stretched  away  witli  his  utmost  speed; 

Hills  rose  and  fell,  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  'fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  south, 
The  dust/fike  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth/  25 

Or  the  tfail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster; 
x-  The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
V  Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls:  30 

Every  nerve  of  .the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play. 
With  Sheridan/only  ten  miles  away. 


Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed; 

And  the  lansdscape  sped  away  behind  35 

Like  an  ocean 'flying  before  the  wind; 

And  the  steed,  like  ajjarkffed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 

But  lo/  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray,  40 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

/ 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers Jand  then  the  retreating  troops, 
What  was  done?  what  to  do?  a  glance  told  him  both; 
Then  striking  his  spurs,  with'  a  terrible  oath,  45 


5H  AMERICAN  POEMS 

lie  dashed  down  the  line/'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas/ 
'••    And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there J because 
\     The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play  50 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say/' 
"I  have  brought  you  Sheridan,  all  the  way 

From  Winchester,  downJto  save  the  dayl" 

Hurrah  j,  hurrah,  for  Sheridan  I 

Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  horse  and  man!  55 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky/ 

(The  American  soldiers'  Temple  of  Fame), 

There  with  the  glorious  general's  name, 

Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright,  60 

"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  ii^to  the  fight, 

From  Winchester,' twenty  miles  away  I" 

1865. 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG 

(BY  WILL  HENRY   THOMPSON) 

Reprinted  from  The  Century  Magazine,  with  the  permission  of  the  author 
A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field, 
The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield : 
Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed, 
And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed.  5 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 

Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 

With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 

To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 

Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny.  10 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 

A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 

The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons!  i«? 


POEMS  OP  THE  CIVIL  WAR  5*5 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 

Against  the  front  of  Pettigrewl 

A  Kamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 

Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 

The  British  squares  at  Waterloo!  20 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led; 

A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled : 

In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 

The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke, 

And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead.  25 

"Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me!" 

Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee; 
"We  two  together,  come  what  may, 

Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day!" 

(The  reddest  day  in  history.)  3° 

Brave  Tennessee!     In  reckless  way 
Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say, 
"Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag!" 
What  time  she  set  her  battle-flag 
Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday.  35 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 

Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate  ? 

The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 

Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 

And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate.  40 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 

His  breast  against  the  bayonet. 

In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 

A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 

Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet.  45 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 

Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 

Receding  through  the  battle-cloud, 

And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 

The  death-cry  of  a  nation  lost.  50 


516  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  brave  went  down;  without  disgrace 

They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace: 

They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 

And  saw  the  dazzling  sunburst  break 

In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face.  55 

They  fell  who  lifted  up  a  hand 

And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand: 

They  smote  and  fell  who  set  the  bars 

Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 

And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland.  60 

They  stood  who  saw  the  future  come 

On  through  the  fight's  delirium: 

They  smote  and  stood  who  held  the  hope 

Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 

Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom.  65 

God  lives:  He  forged  the  iron  will 

That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 

God  lives  and  reigns:  He  built  and  lent 

The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 

Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still.  70 

Fold  up  the  banners!    Smelt  the  guns! 
Love  rules;  her  gentler  purpose  runs. 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 

Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons.  75 

1887.  1888. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee  farmer, 
Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  all  stalwart  men  of  might. 
There  he  spoke  aloud  for  Freedom,  and  the  Border-strife  grew 

warmer, 

Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in  his  absence,  in  the  night: 
And  Old  Brown 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Came  homeward  in  the  morning — to  find  his  house  burned  down. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN  517 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle  and  boldly  fought  for  Freedom, 

Smote  from  border  unto  border  the  fierce,  invading  band; 
And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed — so  might  Heaven  help  and  speed 

'em! —  10 

They  would  save  those  grand  old  prairies  from  the  curse  that 
blights  the  land: 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Said,  "Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  usl"  and  he  shoved  his  ramrod  down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they  labored  day  and  even,          15 
Saving  Kansas  from  its  peril;  and  their  very  lives  seemed 

charmed, 

Till  the  Ruffians  killed  one  son,  in  the  blessed  light  of  Heaven — 
In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him,  as  he  journeyed  all  unarmed: 
Then  Old  Brown, 

Osawatomie  Brown,  20 

Shed  not  a  tear,  but  shut  his  teeth  and  frowned  a  terrible  frown! 

Then  they  seized  another  brave  boy — not  amid  the  heat  of  battle, 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  plow-share, — and  they  loaded  him  with 

chains, 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as  they  goad  their  cattle, 

Drove  him  cruelly,  for  their  sport,  and  at  last  blew  out  his  brains:       25 
Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Raised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  calling  Heaven's  vengeance  down. 

And  he  swore  a  fearful  oath,  by  the  name  of  the  Almighty, 
He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil  that  had  scathed  and  torn 

him  so;  30 

He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals;  he  would  crush  it  day  and  night;  he 
Would  so  pursue  its  footsteps,  so  return  it  blow  for  blow, 
That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in  backwoods  or  in  town!  35 

Then  his  beard  became  more  grizzled,  and  his  wild  blue  eye  grew  wilder, 
And  more  sharply  curved  his  hawk's-nose,  snuffing  battle  from  afar; 
And  he  and  the  two  boys  left,  though  the  Kansas  strife  waxed  milder, 


518  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Grew  more  sullen,  till  was  over  the  bloody  Border  War, 

And  Old  Brown,  40 

Osawatomie  Brown, 
Had  gone  crazy,  as  they  reckoned  by  his  fearful  glare  and  frown. 

So  he  left  the  plains  of  Kansas  and  their  bitter  woes  behind  him, 

Slipt  off  into  Virginia,  where  the  statesmen  all  are  born, 
Hired  a  farm  by  Harper's  Ferry,  and  no  one  knew  where  to  find  him,       45 
Or  whether  he  'd  turned  parson,  or  was  jacketed  and  shorn; 
For  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Mad  as  he  was,  knew  texts  enough  to  wear  a  parson's  gown. 

He  bought  no  plows  and  harrows,  spades  and  shovels,  or  such 

trifles,  5° 

But  quietly  to  his  rancho  there  came,  by  every  train, 
Boxes  full  of  pikes  and  pistols,  and  his  well-beloved  Sharp's  rifles; 
And  eighteen  other  madmen  joined  their  leader  there  again: 
Says  Old  Brown, 

Osawatomie  Brown,  55 

'Boys,  we  have  got  an  army  large  enough  to  whip  the  town! 

'Whip  the  town,  and  seize  the  muskets,  free  the  negroes  and  then  arm 

them; 

Carry  the  County  and  the  State,  aye,  and  all  the  potent  South. 
On  their  own  heads  be  the  slaughter,  if  their  victims  rise  to  harm  them — 
These  Virginians,  who  believed  not,  nor  would  heed  the  warning 

mouth."  6c 

Says  Old  Brown 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
'The  world  shall  see  a  Republic,  or  my  name  is  not  John  Brown." 

T  was  the  sixteenth  of  October,  on  the  evening  of  a  Sunday — 

" This  good  work, "  declared  the  captain,  "  shall  be  on  a  holy  night! " — 65 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  before  the  noon  of  Monday, 

With  two  sons,  and  Captain  Stephens,  fifteen  privates — black  and 
white — 

Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Marched  across  the  bridged  Potomac,  and  knocked  the  sentinel  down;     70 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN  519 

Took  the  guarded  armory-building  and  the  muskets  and  the  cannon; 

Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the  colonels,  one  by  one; 
Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia  they  ran  on, 
And  before  the  noon  of  Monday,  I  say,  the  deed  was  done: 

Mad  Old  Brown,  75 

Osawatomie  Brown, 
With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men,  went  in  and  took  the  town. 

Very  little  noise  and  bluster,  little  smell  of  powder  made  he; 

It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the  Emperor's  coup  d'  tlat: 
'Cut  the  wires!    Stop  the  rail-cars!     Hold  the  streets  and  bridges!" 

said  he,  80 

Then  declared  the  new  Republic,  with  himself  for  guiding  star — 
This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown; 
And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran  off  and  left  the  town. 

Then  was  riding  and  railroading  and  expressing  here  and  thither;          85 
And  the  Martinsburg  Sharpshooters  and  the  Charlestown  Volun 
teers 

And  the  Shepherdstown  and  Winchester  Militia  hastened  whither 
Old  Brown  was  said  to  muster  his  ten  thousand  grenadiers — 
General  Brown! 

Osawatomie  Brown!!  90 

Behind  whose  rampant  banner  all  the  North  was  pouring  down. 

But  at  last,  't  is  said,  some  prisoners  escaped  from  Old  Brown's  durance, 

And  the  effervescent  valor  of  Ye  Chivalry  broke  forth 
When  they  learned  that  nineteen  madmen  had  the  marvellous  assur 
ance — 

Only  nineteen — thus  to  seize  the  place  and  drive  them  frightened 
forth:  95 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Found  an  army  come  to  take  him,  encamped  around  the  town. 

But  to  storm,  with  all  the  forces  I  have  mentioned,  was  too  risky; 

So  they  hurried  off  to  Richmond  for  the  Government  Marines,         100 
Tore  them  from  their  weeping  matrons,  fired  their  souls  with  Bourbon 
whisky, 


520  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Till  they  battered  down  Brown's  castle  with  their  ladders  and 
machines; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Received  three  bayonet  stabs  and  a  cut  on  his  brave  old  crown.  105 

Tallyho!  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather  to  the  baying! 

In  they  rushed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting  lustily  away; 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel  those  who  came  too  late  for  slaying, 
Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fired  their  bullets  in  his  clay: 

And  Old  Brown,  no 

Osawatomie  Brown, 
Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and  between  them  laid  him  down. 

How  the  conquerors  wore  their  laurels;  how  they  hastened  on  the 

trial; 
How  Old  Brown  was  placed,  half  dying,  on  the  Charlestown  Court- 

House  floor; 

How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  scorn  of  all  denial;  115 

What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them — these  are  known  the 
country  o'er. 

"Hang  Old  Brown, 

Osawatomie  Brown," 
Said  the  judge,  "and  all  such  rebels!"  with  his  most  judicial  frown. 

But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it!  for  I  tell  you  that  the  flagon  120 

Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  offspring  was  first  poured  by 

Southern  hands; 
And  each  drop  from  Old  Brown's  life-veins,  like  the  red  gore  of  the 

dragon, 

May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fury,  hissing  through  your  slave-worn 
lands! 

And  Old  Brown, 

Osawatomie  Brown,  125 

May  trouble  you  more  than  ever  when  you  Ve  nailed  his  coffin  down! 
1859.  1859. 

PAN  IN  WALL  STREET 
Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 

Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations; 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 
To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations; 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 


Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold  5 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter-chimes  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple; 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor,  10 

Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer. — 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways, 

It  led  from  all  this  strife  for  millions 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days  *5 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 
I  saw  the  minstrel  where  he  stood 

At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar:  20 

One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 
Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 

T  was  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here,  25 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city, 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas, 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr,  3c 

And  Syracusan  times,  to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head: 

But — hidden  thus — there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread,  35 

His  gnarled  horns  were  somewhere  sprouting; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 

Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath  them.  ;o 


522  AMERICAN  POEMS 


He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 

And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted, 
And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 

Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills  45 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 

With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New-Street  Alley,  50 

As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley; 
The  random  passers  stayed  to  list: 

A  boxer  ^Egon,  rough  and  merry; 
A  Broadway  Daphnis  on  his  tryst  5S 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry; 

And  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern; 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng — 

A  blowsy,  apple- vending  slattern;  60 

While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl  65 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper — 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper. 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher,  70 

While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 

His  pipe  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

O  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her, 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill  75 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water! 


ALICE  GARY  523 


New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands, 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals  I  80 

So  thought  I — but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting,  I  mused  upon  the  cry,  85 

"Great  Pan  is  dead!"— and  all  the  people 
Went  on  their  ways;  and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 
1866.  1867. 

ALICE  GARY 

SOMETIMES 

Sometimes  for  days 

Along  the  fields  that  I  of  time  have  leased 
I  go,  nor  find  a  single  leaf  increased; 

And,  hopeless,  graze 
With  forehead  stooping  downward  like  a  beast.  5 

0  heavy  hours! 

My  life  seems  all  a  failure,  and  I  sigh, 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do  but  die  ? 

So  small  my  powers 
That  I  can  only  stretch  them  to  a  cry!  10 

But  while  I  stretch 

What  strength  I  have,  though  only  to  a  cry, 
I  gain  an  utterance  that  men  know  me  by; 

Create,  and  fetch 
A  something  out  of  chaos — that  is  I.  15 

Good  comes  to  pass 

We  know  not  when  nor  how,  for,  looking  to 
What  seemed  a  barren  waste,  there  starts  to  view 

Some  bunch  of  grass, 
Or  snarl  of  violets,  shining  with  the  dew.  20 

1  do  believe 

The  very  impotence  to  pray  is  prayer; 


524  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  hope  that  all  will  end  is  in  despair, 

And  while  we  grieve 

Comfort  abideth  with  us  unaware.  25 

1866. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 

IN  YOSEMITE  VALLEY 

[Copyrighted,  1897,  by  Whitaker  &  Ray-Wiggin  Co.  ,San  Francisco,  and  here  printed 
by  permission] 

Sound  1  sound!  sound  1 
O  colossal  walls,  and  crown'd 
In  one  eternal  thunder! 
Sound!  sound!  sound! 

O  ye  oceans  overhead,  5 

While  we  walk,  subdued  in  wonder, 
In  the  ferns  and  grasses  under 
And  beside  the  swift  Merced! 

Fret!  fret!  fret! 

Streaming,  sounding  banners,  set  10 

On  the  giant  granite  castles 
In  the  clouds  and  in  the  snow! 
But  the  foe  he  comes  not  yet — 
We  are  loyal,  valiant  vassals, 

And  we  touch  the  trailing  tassels  15 

Of  the  banners  far  below. 

Surge!  surge!  surge! 
From  the  white  Sierra's  verge 
To  the  very  valley  blossom. 

Surge!  surge!  surge!  20 

Yet  the  song-bird  builds  a  home, 
And  the  mossy  branches  cross  them, 
And  the  tasselled  tree-tops  toss  them, 
In  the  clouds  of  falling  foam. 

Sweep!  sweep!  sweep!  25 

O  ye  heaven-born  and  deep, 
In  one  dread,  unbroken  chorus  I 
We  may  wonder  or  may  weep, 
We  may  wait  on  God  before  us, 

We  may  shout  or  lift  a  hand,  30 

We  may  bow  down  and  deplore  us, 
But  mav  never  understand. 


SIDNEY  LANIER  525 


Beat!  beat!  beat! 
We  advance,  but  would  retreat 

From  this  restless,  broken  breast  35 

Of  the  earth  in  a  convulsion. 
We  would  rest,  but  dare  not  rest, 
For  the  angel  of  expulsion 
From  this  Paradise  below 
Waves  us  onward  and — we  go.  4° 

FROM 
THE  SHIP  IN  THE  DESERT 

(Copyrighted,  1897,  by  Whitaker  &  Ray-Wiggin  Co.,  San  Francisco,  and  here  printed 
by  permission] 

What  great  yoked  brutes  with  briskets  low, 

With  wrinkled  necks  like  buffalo, 

With  round,  brown,  liquid,  pleading  eyes, 

That  turned  so  slow  and  sad  to  you, 

That  shone  like  love's  eyes  soft  with  tears,  5 

That  seemed  to .  plead  and  make  replies, 

The  while  they  bowed  their  necks  and  drew 

The  creaking  load,  and  looked  at  you. 

Their  sable  briskets  swept  the  ground, 

Their  cloven  feet  kept  solemn  sound.  10 

Two  sullen  bullocks  led  the  line, 

Their  great  eyes  shining  bright  like  wine: 

Two  sullen  captive  kings  were  they, 

That  had  in  time  held  herds  at  bay; 

And  even  now  they  crushed  the  sod  15 

With  stolid  sense  of  majesty, 

And  stately  stepped  and  stately  trod, 

As  if  't  were  something  still  to  be 

Kings  even  in  captivity. 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

[The  selections  from  Lanier  are  reprinted,  by  permission,  from  the  1884  edition  of  his 
l«ems,  copyrighted  by  Mary  D.  Lanier,  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons! 

NIGHT  AND  DAY 
The  innocent,  sweet  Day  is  dead: 
Dark  Night  hath  slain  her  in  her  bed. 
O,  Moors  are  as  fierce  to  kill  as  to  wed ! 
—"Put  out  the  light,"  said  he. 


526  AMERICAN  POEMS 

A  sweeter  light  than  ever  rayed  5 

From  star  of  heaven  or  eye  of  maid 
Has  vanished  in  the  unknown  Shade. 
— "She  's  dead,  she  's  dead,"  said  he. 

Now,  in  a  wild,  sad  after-mood, 

The  tawny  Night  sits  still  to  brood  10 

Upon  the  dawn- time  when  he  wooed. 
— "I  would  she  lived,"  said  he. 

Star-memories  of  happier  times, 

Of  loving  deeds  and  lovers'  rhymes, 

Throng  forth  in  silvery  pantomimes.  15 

—"Come  back,  O  Day!"  said  he. 
1866.  1884. 

SONG  FOR  "THE  JACQUERIE" 

The  hound  was  cuffed,  the  hound  was  kicked, 
O'  the  ears  was  cropped,  o'  the  tail  was  nicked; 
(All.)      "Oo-hoo-o!"  howled  the  hound. 
The  hound  into  his  kennel  crept; 

He  rarely  wept,  he  never  slept;  5 

His  mouth  he  always  open  kept 
Licking  his  bitter  wound, 

The  hound. 
(All.)  "U-lu-lol "  howled  the  hound. 

A  star  upon  his  kennel  shone  10 

That  showed  the  hound  a  meat-bare  bone: 
(All.)         O  hungry  was  the  hound! 

The  hound  had  but  a  churlish  wit: 
He  seized  the  bone,  he  crunched,  he  bit. 
"An  thou  wert  Master,  I  had  slit  15 

Thy  throat  with  a  huge  wound," 

Quo'  hound; 
(All.)  O,  angry  was  the  hound. 

The  star  in  castle- window  shone; 

The  Master  lay  abed,  alone:  20 

(Ah.)      "Oh  ho,  why  not?"  quo'  hound. 

He  leapt,  he  seized  the  throat,  he  tore 
The  Master,  head  from  neck,  to  floor, 


SIDNEY  LANIER  527 

And  rolled  the  head  i'  the  kennel  door, 

And  fled  and  salved  his  wound,  25 

Good  hound! 

(All.)  "U-lu-lo!"  howled  the  hound. 

1868.  x884. 

THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN 

Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that,  myriad-cloven, 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs, — 
Emerald  twilights, 

Virginal  shy  lights,  5 

Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of  vows, 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through  the  green  colonnades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 

That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach  within  10 

The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn; — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon-day  fire,— 

Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 

Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  waverings  arras  of  leaves, — 

Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer  to  the  soul  that  grieves,       15 

Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through  the  wood, 

Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good;— 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of  the  vine, 

While  the  riotous  noon-day  sun  of  the  June-day  long  did  shine 

Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast  in  mine;  20 

But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 

And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the  West, 

And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood-aisle  doth  seem 

Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 

Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul  of  the  oak,      25 

And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome  sound  of 

the  stroke 

Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is  low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I  know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass  within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the  marshes  of 

Glynn  »o 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought  me  of  yore 
When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was  but  bitterness 

sore, 

And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  unnamable  pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the  plain, — 


Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face  35 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn, 
Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of  the  dawn, 
For  a  mete  and  a  mark 

To  the  forest-dark:—  4° 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, — 
Thus — with  your  favor — soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  land!) 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand  45 

On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 
By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 

Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the  shimmering 

band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to  the  folds 

of  the  land.  5° 

Inward  and  outward,  to  northward  and  southward,  the  beach- 
lines  linger  and  curl 
As  a  silver- wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows  the  firm 

sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 

Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim  gray  looping  of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the  woods  stands 

high  ?  55 

The  world  lies  east:    how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and 

the  sky! 
A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  broad  in  the 

blade, 

Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light  or  a  shade, 
Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main.  60 


SIDNEY  LANIER  529 


Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea  ? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the  marshes  of 
Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing-withholding  and 

free  65 

Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to  the  sea! 
Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the  sun, 
Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath  mightily  won 
God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain.  70 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 

Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God; 

I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 

In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh  and  the  skies; 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod  75 

I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of  God; 

Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  within 

The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of  Glynn. 

And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh:  lo,  out  of  his  plenty  the  sea 
Pours  fast;  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood-tide  must  be;  80 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that  flow 
Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and  the  low-lying 

lanes,  85 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun! 

The  creeks  overflow:  a  thousand  rivulets  run  90 

Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod;  the  blades  of  the  marsh-grass  stir; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward  whirr; 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still;  and  the  currents  cease  to  run; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 


530  AMERICAN  POEMS 


How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  bel  95 

The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy; 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height: 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters  of  sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men;  100 

But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 

The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when  the  tide 

comes  in 
On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvellous  marshes  of  Glynn.     105 

1878.  1879. 


HOW  LOVE  LOOKED  FOR  HELL 

To  heal  his  heart  of  long-time  pain, 

One  day  Prince  Love  for  to  travel  was  fain 

With  Ministers  Mind  and  Sense. 
"Now  what  to  thee  most  strange  may  be?" 
Quoth  Mind  and  Sense.     "All  things  above,  5 

One  curious  thing  I  first  would  see — 

Hell,"  quoth  Love. 

Then  Mind  rode  in  and  Sense  rode  out; 
They  searched  the  ways  of  man  about. 

First  frightfully  groaneth  Sense:  10 

"  T  is  here,  't  is  here,"  and  spurreth  in  fear 
To  the  top  of  the  hill  that  hangeth  above, 
And  plucketh  the  Prince:  "Come,  come,  't  is  here — " 
"Where? "quoth  Love. 

"Not  far,  not  far,"  said  shivering  Sense,  15 

As  they  rode  on;  "a  short  way  hence 

— But  seventy  paces  hence: 
Look,  King,  dost  see  where  suddenly 
This  road  doth  dip  from  the  height  above  ? 
Cold  blew  a  mouldy  wind  by  me"  20 

("  Cold?  "quoth  Love). 


SIDNEY  LANIER  531 


"As  I  rode  down,  and  the  River  was  black, 
And  yon-side,  lo!  an  endless  wrack 

And  rabble  of  souls,"  sighed  Sense; 

"Their  eyes  upturned  and  begged  and  burned  25 

In  brimstone  lakes,  and  a  Hand  above 
Beat  back  the  hands  that  upward  yearned — " 
"Nay!"  quoth  Love. 

"Yea,  yea,  sweet  Prince;  thyself  shalt  see, 
Wilt  thou  but  down  this  slope  with  me;  30 

T  is  palpable,"  whispered  Sense. 
—At  the  foot  of  the  hill  a  living  rill 
Shone,  and  the  lilies  shone  white  above: 
"But  now  't  was  black,  't  was  a  river,  this  rill" 

("Black  ?  "  quoth  Love).  35 

"Ay,  black,  but  lo!  the  lilies  grow; 
And  yon-side  where  was  woe,  was  woe, 

— Where  the  rabble  of  souls,"  cried  Sense, 
"Did  shrivel  and  turn  and  beg  and  burn, 
Thrust  back  in  the  brimstone  from  above —  40 

Is  banked  of  violet,  rose  and  fern!" 
"How?"  quoth  Love. 

"For  lakes  of  pain,  yon  pleasant  plain 
Of  woods  and  grass  and  yellow  grain 

Doth  ravish  the  soul  and  sense:  45 

And  never  a  sigh  beneath  the  sky, 
And  folk  that  smile  and  gaze  above — " 
"But  saw'st  thou  here,  with  thine  own  eye, 
Hell?"  quoth  Love. 

"I  saw  true  hell  with  mine  own  eye;  50 

True  hell,  or  light  hath  told  a  lie, 

True,  verily,"  quoth  stout  Sense. 
Then  Love  rode  round  and  searched  the  ground, 
The  caves  below,  the  hills  above: 

"But  I  cannot  find  where  thou  hast  found  55 

Hell,"  quoth  Love. 

There,  while  they  stood  in  a  green  wood 
And  marvelled  still  on  111  and  Good, 
Came  suddenly  Minister  Mind. 


532  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"In  the  heart  of  sin  doth  hell  begin:  60 

'T  is  not  below,  't  is  not  above, 
It  lieth  within,  it  lieth  within" 
("Where?"  quoth  Love). 

"I  saw  a  man  sit  by  a  corse; 
Hell  's  in  the  murderer's  breast:  remorse/  65 

Thus  clamoured  his  mind  to  his  mind. 
Not  fleshly  dole  is  the  sinner's  goal; 
Hell  's  not  below,  not  yet  above, 
'T  is  fixed  in  the  ever-damned  soul — " 

"Fixed?"  quoth  Love.  70 

"Fixed:  follow  me,  would'st  thou  but  see; 
He  weepeth  under  yon  willow  tree, 

Fast  chained  to  his  corse,"  quoth  Mind. 
Full  soon  they  passed,  for  they  rode  fast, 
Where  the  piteous  willow  bent  above.  75 

"Now  shall  I  see  at  last,  at  last, 
Hell,"  quoth  Love. 

There  when  they  came,  Mind  suffered  shame: 
"These  be  the  same  and  not  the  same," 

A-wondering  whispered  Mind.  80 

Lo,  face  by  face  two  spirits  pace 
Where  the  blissful  willow  waves  above: 
One  saith,  "Do  me  a  friendly  grace — " 
("Grace!"  quoth  Love): 

"Read  me  two  Dreams  that  linger  long,  85 

Dim  as  returns  of  old-time  song 

That  flicker  about  the  mind. 
I  dreamed  (how  deep  in  mortal  sleep!) 
I  struck  thee  dead,  then  stood  above, 

With  tears  that  none  but  dreamers  weep."  90 

"Dreams,"  quoth  Love. 

"In  dreams,  again,  I  plucked  a  flower 
That  clung  with  pain  and  stung  with  power, 
Yea,  nettled  me,  body  and  mind." 


EMILY  DICKINSON  533 

"T  was  the  nettle  of  sin,  't  was  medicine;  95 

No  need  nor  seed  of  it  here  Above; 
In  dreams  of  hate  true  loves  begin." 
"True,"  quoth  Love. 

"Now,  strange,"  quoth  Sense;  and  "Strange,"  quoth 

Mind; 
"We  saw  it,  and  yet  't  is  hard  to  find,  100 

— But  we  saw  it,"  quoth  Sense  and  Mind. 
Stretched  on  the  ground,  beautiful-crowned 
Of  the  piteous  willow  that  wreathed  above, 
"But  I  cannot  find  where  ye  have  found 

Hell,"  quoth  Love.  .  105 

1878-79.  1884. 


EMILY  DICKINSON 

[The  selections  from  Miss  Dickinson  are  here  printed  with  the  permission  of  Little, 
Brown  &  Co.) 

TO  FIGHT  ALOUD  IS  VERY  BRAVE 

(Copyright,  by  Martha  G.  D.  Bianchi] 
To  fight  aloud  is  very  brave; 
But  gallanter,  I  know, 
Who  charge  within  the  bosom 
The  cavalry  of  woe. 

Who  win,  and  nations  do  not  see;  5 

Who  fall,  and  none  observe; 
Whose  dying  eyes  no  country 
Regards  with  patriot  love. 

We  trust  in  plumed  procession 

For  such  the  angels  go,  ic 

Rank  after  rank,  with  even  feet 

And  uniforms  of  snow. 

1891. 

I  DIED  FOR  BEAUTY 

(Copyright,  by  Martha  G.  D.  Bianchi] 

I  died  for  beauty,  but  was  scarce 
Adjusted  in  the  tomb 
When  one  who  died  for  truth  was  lain 
In  an  adjoining  room. 


534  AMERICAN  POEMS 


He  questioned  softly  why  I  failed:  5 

"For  beauty,"  I  replied. 
"And  I  for  truth — the  two  are  one; 

We  brethren  are,"  he  said. 

And  so,  as  kinsmen  met  a  night, 

We  talked  between  the  rooms  to 

Until  the  moss  had  reached  our  lips 

And  covered  up  our  names. 

1891. 


THE  WAY  I  READ  A  LETTER  'S  THIS 

[Copyright,  by  Martha  G.  D.  Biancbi] 

The  way  I  read  a  letter  's  this: 
T  is  first  I  lock  the  door, 
And  push  it  with  my  fingers  next, 
For  transport  it  be  sure; 

And  then  I  go  the  furthest  off  5 

To  counteract  a  knock; 

Then  draw  my  little  letter  forth, 

And  softly  pick  its  lock; 

Then,  glancing  narrow  at  the  wall 

And  narrow  at  the  floor,  10 

For  firm  conviction  of  a  mouse 

Not  exorcised  before, 

Peruse  how  infinite  I  am 

To — no  one  that  you  know! 

And  sigh  for  lack  of  heaven — but  not  15 

The  heaven  the  creeds  bestow. 

1892. 

THE  LOVERS 

(Copyright,  by  Martha  G.  D.  Bianchi] 

The  rose  did  caper  on  her  cheek. 
Her  bodice  rose  and  fell; 
Her  pretty  speech,  like  drunken  men, 
Did  stagger  pitiful; 


EMILY  DICKINSON  535 


Her  fingers  fumbled  at  her  work —  5 

Her  needle  would  not  go: 

What  ailed  so  smart  a  little  maid 

It  puzzled  me  to  know, 

Till  opposite  I  spied  a  cheek 

That  bore  another  rose;  10 

Just  opposite,  another  speech 

That  like  the  drunkard  goes; 

A  vest  that,  like  the  bodice,  danced 

To  the  immortal  tune — 

Till  those  two  troubled  little  clocks  15 

Ticked  softly  into  one. 

1892. 

IN  THE  GARDEN 

Copyright,  by  Martha  G.  D.  Bianchi] 

A  bird  came  down  the  walk: 
He  did  not  know  I  saw; 
He  bit  an  angle-worm  in  halves, 
And  ate  the  fellow,  raw. 

And  then  he  drank  a  dew  5 

From  a  convenient  grass, 

And  then  hopped  sidewise  to  the  wall 

To  let  a  beetle  pass. 

He  glanced  with  rapid  eyes 

That  hurried  all  abroad —  10 

They  looked  like  frightened  beads,  I  thought; 
He  stirred  his  velvet  head 

Like  one  in  danger.     Cautious, 

I  offered  him  a  crumb; 

And  he  unrolled  his  feathers,  15 

And  rowed  him  softer  home 

Than  oars  divide  the  ocean, 
Too  silver  for  a  seam, 
Or  butterflies  off  banks  of  noon 
Leap  plashless  as  they  swim.  20 

1892. 


536  AMERICAN  POEMS 


THE  SNAKE 

iCopyright,  by  Martha  G.  D.  Bianchi) 
A  narrow  fellow  in  the  grass 
Occasionally  rides; 

You  may  have  met  him — did  you  not, 
His  notice  sudden  is. 

The  grass  divides  as  with  a  comb, 

A  spotted  shaft  is  seen;  5 

And  then  it  closes  at  your  feet, 

And  opens  further  on. 

He  likes  a  boggy  acre, 

A  floor  too  cool  for  corn;  10 

Yet  when  a  child,  and  barefoot, 

I  more  than  once,  at  morn, 

Have  passed,  I  thought,  a  whip-lash 

Unbraiding  in  the  sun — 

When,  stooping  to  secure  it,  15 

It  wrinkled  and  was  gone. 

Several  of  nature's  people 

I  know,  and  they  know  me; 

I  feel  for  them  a  transport 

Of  cordiality:  20 

But  never  met  this  fellow, 
Attended  or  alone, 
Without  a  tighter  breathing 

And  zero  at  the  bone. 

1892. 

SIMPLICITY 

[Copyright,  by  Martha  G.  D.  Bianchi] 
.  How  happy  is  the  little  stone 
That  rambles  in  the  road  alone, 
And  doesn't  care  about  careers, 
And  exigencies  never  fears; 

Whose  coat  of  elemental  brown  5 

A  passing  universe  put  on; 
And  independent  as  the  sun 
Associates  or  glows  alone, 
Fulfilling  absolute  decree 

In  casual  simplicity.  IO 

1892. 


NOTES 


NOTES 

WILLIAM  MORRELL 

(1)  NEW-ENGLAND.     Lines  133-70.    The  text  is  that  of  the  1625  edition,  from 
a  photographic  facsimile  by  The  Club  of  Odd  Volumes.     U  15.  greeces=  degrees 
("ordine"  in  the  Latin  version);    the  meaning  seems  to  be  that  the  hair  varied  in 
length  on  different  parts  of  the  head,  from  a  close  cut  to  the  scalp  lock.     U  29. 
Finsen  =  a.  kind  of  shoe;   here,  moccasins. 

ANONYMOUS 

(2)  THE  WHOLE  BOOKE  OF  PSALMES.     Commonly  known  as  The  Bay  Psalm 
Book.     The  text  is  that  of  the  1640  edition,  from  a  copy  in  the  John  Carter  Brown 
Library,  Brown  University.     "If  therefore  the  verses  are  not  alwayes  so  smooth 
and  elegant  as  some  may  desire  or  expect,  let  them  consider  that  Gods  Altar  needs 
not  our  polishings  (Ex.  20),  for  wee  have  respected  rather  a  plaine  translation  then 
to  smooth  our  verses  with  the  sweetnes  of  any  paraphrase,  and  soe  have  attended 
Conscience  rather  then  Elegance,  fidelity  rather  then  poetry,  in  translating  the 
hebrew  words  into  english  language,  and  Davids  poetry  into  english  meetre,  that 
soe  wee  may  sing  in  Sion  the  Lords  songs  of  prayse  according  to  his  owne  will." — 
Preface. 

(2) 

(3)  9. 

EDWARD  JOHNSON 

(3)  THE  WONDER- WORKING  PROVIDENCE  OF  SIGNS  SAVIOUR  IN  NEW-ENGLAND. 
Stanzas  i,  21,  22,  of  chap.  9.     The  text  is  from  the  1654  edition. 

(4)  9.  #  ere  =  hear 

ANNE  BRADSTREET 

The  text,  with  the  exceptions  noted,  is  that  of  the  1678  edition  ("Corrected 
by  the  Author"),  checked  by  the  1650  edition,  from  copies  in  the  Harris  Collection. 
Brown  University  Library. 

(4)  THE  PROLOGUE.     U  8.  Bartos:   a  French  poet  (1544-99),  whose  poem  on 
the  Creation,  either  in  the  original  or  in  Sylvester's  translation,  was  a  great  favorite 
among  the  Puritans. 

(5)  19.  that  fluent  sweet-tongu 'd  Greek:   Demosthenes,  who,  to  cure  himself  of  a 
lisp,  practiced  speaking  with  a  pebble  in  his  mouth.     U  47.  urc=ore. 

(6)  OF  THE  FOUR  AGES  OF  MAN.     Lines  1-60.     U  i.  four  other:   in  the  original 
editions  this  poem  is  preceded  by  poems  on  the  four  elements  (fire,  air,  earth,  water) 
and  the  four  humors  of  man  (choleric,  sanguine,  melancholy,  phlegmatic);    see  the 
next  eight  lines,  in  which  the  relation  of  the  four  ages  ot  man  to  these  elements  and 
humors  is  indicated 

S39 


540  AMERICAN  POEMS 

(7)  THE  FOUR  SEASONS  OF  THE  YEAR.    Lines  1-84. 

(8)  27.  Pleiades  their  influence:    italicized  in  the  original  editions  because  a 
sort  of  quotation  from  Job  38:31,  "Canst  thou  bind  the  sweet  influences  of  Pleiades?" 
Is8.  gleads  =  hawks. 

(9)  82.  //;<•»  =  than. 

(9)  THE  FOUR  MONARCHYES.     From  "The  Second  Monarchy,"  11.  78-124  of 
the  section  "Xerxes." 

(10)  21.  Artubanus:    Artabanus  was  the  chief  general  of  Xerxes.     If  36.  dis 
cover ed  =  showed,      fl  43-46.     Greece  was  then  prostrate  under  the  cruel  rule  of 
Turkey.     Cf.  Byron's  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  II.  Ixxiii. 

(10)  CONTEMPLATIONS. 

(11)  14.  then = than. 

(12)  80.  Imp** child. 

(14)  136.  had:    apparently  a  misprint   for  "have"  or  "have  had."     U  158. 
Thetis  house:   the  ocean;  Thetis  was  a  sea  goddess. 

(15)  190.  prevent  =  anticipate. 

(16)  225-30.  Cf.  Spenser's  "Ruines  of  Time,"  stanza  14: 

High  towers,  faire  temples,  goodly  theaters, 
Strong  walls,  rich  porches,  princelie  pallaces, 
Large  streetes,  brave  houses,  sacred  sepulchers, 
Sure  gates,  sweete  gardens,  stately  galleries 
Wrought  with  faire  pillours  and  fine  imageries, 
All  those  (0  pi  tie!)  now  are  turnd  to  dust, 
And  overgrowen  with  blacke  oblivions  rust. 

And  Shakspere's  Sonnets,  lxv.i-8: 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea, 
But  sad  mortality  o'er-sways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 
O,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days, 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout, 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  Time  decays? 

(17)  230-32.  See  Rev.  2:17:  "To  him  that  overcometh  will  I  give  to  eat  of  the 
hidden  manna,  and  will  give  him  a  white  stone,  and  in  the  stone  a  new  name 
written." 

(17)  A  LETTER  TO  HER  HUSBAND.     First  published  in  J.  H.  Ellis's  edition  of 
Mrs.  Bradstreet's  works,  in  1867,  from  which  the  text  is  taken. 

(18)  LONGING  FOR  HEAVEN.     First  published  in  Ellis's  edition,  from  which  the 
text  is  taken. 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

Mercury  shew'd  Apollo  Bartas  Book, 
Minerva  this,  and  wisht  him  well  to  look, 
And  tell  uprightly  which  did  which  excell: 
He  view'd  and  view'd  and  vow'd,  he  could  not  tel. 
They  bid  him  Hemisphear  his  mouldy  nose 
With  's  crackt  leering  glasses,  for  it  would  pose 
The  best  brains  he  had  in  's  old  pudding-pan, 
Sex  weigh'd.  which  best,  the  Woman  or  the  Man? 


NOTES  541 


He  peer'd  and  por'd  and  glar'd,  &  said  for  wore, 
"I  'me  even  as  wise  now  as  I  was  before." 

They  both  'gan  laugh,  and  said  it  was  no  mar'l: 

The  Auth'ress  was  a  right  Du  Bartas  Girle. 
"Good  sooth,"  quoth  the  old  Don,  "tell  ye  me  so? 

I  muse  whither  at  length  these  Girls  will  go. 

It  half  revives  my  chil  frost-bitten  blood 

To  see  a  Woman  once  do  ought  that  's  good: 

And,  chode  by  Chaucers  Boots  and  Homers  Furrs, 

Let  Men  look  to  't  least  Women  wear  the  Spurrs. 

— N.  Ward,  prefatory  poem  in  The  Tenth  Muse,  1650. 

'T  were  extream  folly  should  I  dare  attempt 
To  praise  this  Authors  worth  with  complement; 
None  but  her  self  must  dare  commend  her  parts, 
Whose  sublime  brain  's  the  Synopsis  of  Arts. 
Nature  and  skill  here  both  in  one  agree 
To  frame  this  Master-piece  of  Poetry:  _ 
False  Fame,  belye  their  Sex  no  more;  it  can 
Surpass  or  parallel  the  best  of  Man. 

— C.  B.,  prefatory  poem  in  The  Tenth  Muse,  1650. 

Twice  have  I  drunk  the  Nectar  of  your  lines," 
Which  high-sub lim'd  my  mean-born  phantasie, 
Flusht  with  these  streams  of  your  Maronean  wines 
Above  my  self  rapt  to  an  extasie: 
Methought  I  was  upon  Mount  Hiblas  top, 
There  where  I  might  those  fragrant  flowers  lop, 
Whence  did  sweet  odors  flow  and  honey-spangles  drop. 

— J.  Rogers  (afterward  president  of  Harvard  College),  prefatory 
poem  in  The  Tenth  Muse,  1678. 

"Madam  Ann  Bradstreet,  ....  whose  Poems,  divers  times  Printed,  have 
afforded  a  grateful  Entertainment  unto  the  Ingenious  and  a  Monument  for  her 
Memory  beyond  the  Stateliest  Marbles."— Cotton  Mather,  Magnalia  (1702),  Book  II, 
chap.  5- 

MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH 

(19)  THE  DAY  OF  DOOM.  Stanzas  1-7,  20,  38,  51,  68-70,  144,  147,  148, 
166,  167,  171,  180,  181,  195-201,  205,  210-24.  The  text  is  from  the  1715  edition, 
except  for  a  few  readings  from  the  1751  edition.  The  poem  is  preceded  by  "A 
Prayer  unto  Christ,  the  Judge  of  the  World,"  of  which  the  following  is  a  part: 

Thee,  thee  alone  I  Me  invocate; 

For  I  do  much  abominate 

To  call  the  Muses  to  mine  aid, 

Which  is  th'  Unchristian  use  and  trade 

Of  some  that  Christians  would  be  thought, 

And  yet  they  worship  worse  then  nought. 

Oh!  What  a  deal  of  Blasphemy 

And  Heathenish  Impiety 

In  Christian  Poets  may  be  found 

Where  Heathen  gods  with  praise  are  Crown'd: 

They  make  Jehovah  to  stand  by, 

Till  Juno.  Venus,  Mercury. 


542  AMERICAN  POEMS 


With  frowning  Mars  and  thundering  Jove 
Rule  Earth  below  and  Heaven  above. 
But  I  have  learnt  to  pray  to  none 
Save  unto  God  in  Christ  alone; 
Nor  will  I  laud,  no  not  in  jest, 
That  which  I  know  God  doth  detest. 
I  reckon  it  a  damning  evil 
To  give  Gods  Praises  to  the  Devil. 
H  12.  «r«=use. 

(20)  56.  steads  =  places. 

(25)  209.  /Aen  =  than. 

(26)  257.  Renate  =  reborn. 

(27)  GOD'S  CONTROVERSY    WITH  NEW-ENGLAND.     Stanzas  20-22,   25,   28, 
61-64.    The  text  is  from  the  Proceedings  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society, 
May,  1871,  where  it  is  printed  from  the  manuscript . 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"The  sweet  New-England  poet." — Cottoji  Mather  (?),  in  an  elegy  on  Urian 
Oakes,  1682.  "He  Wrote  several  Composures,  wherein  he  proposed  the  edification 
of  such  Readers  as  are  for  plain  Truths  dressed  up  in  a  Plain  Meeter.  These  com 
posures  have  had  their  Acceptance  and  Advantage  among  that  sort  of  Readers;  and 
one  of  them,  the  Day  of  Doom,  which  has  been  often  Reprinted  in  both  Englands, 
may  find  our  Children  till  the  Day  itself  arrive." — Cotton  Mather,  in  a  funeral 
sermon  on  Wigglesworth,  1705. 

In  Costly  Verse  and  most  laborious  Rymes, 
Are  dish'd  up  here  Truths  worthy  most  regard: 
No  Toyes  nor  Fables  (Poets  wonted  Crimes) 
Here  be,  but  things  of  worth  with  wit  prepar'd. 
Reader,  fall  too;  and  if  thy  taste  be  good, 
Thou  'It   praise  the  Cook  and  say,  "T  is  choicest  Food." 

— J.   Mitchell,   in  prefatory  poem  to   1715   edition  of  "The 
Day  of  Doom." 

NEW  ENGLAND  ELEGIES 

The  first  four  elegies  are  taken  from  New-Englands  Memoriall,  by  Nathaniel 
Morton.  The  text  is  that  of  the  1669  edition,  from  a  copy  in  the  John  Carter 
Brown  Library,  Brown  University. 

(28)  UPON  THE  TOMB  OF  THE  MOST  REVEREND  MR.  JOHN  COTTON.     Lines 

20-54-     H  13-  A  polios:    "A  certain  Jew  named  Apollos an  eloquent  man, 

and  mighty  in  the  scriptures." — Acts  18:24. 

(29)  21,   22.  Cotton,  a  brilliant  graduate  of  Cambridge  University,  and  of 
growing  fame  as  a  preacher,  was  driven  out  of  England,  because  of  his  Puritanism, 
by  Archbishop  Laud. 

(29)  LINES  WRITTEN  AT  THE  APPROACH  OF  DEATH.     H  20.  Liber tine  =  free 
thinker,  heretic. 

(30)  A  THRENODIA.     Line  10-34.     \  x.  See  I  Sam.  7:12.     f  2.  Orten/=clear, 
bright. 


NOTES  543 


(31)  AN  ELEGIE  UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  REVEREND  MR.  THOMAS  SHEPARD. 
Stanzas  1-4,  28-31,  40-43,  51,  52.  The  text  is  from  the  1677  edition.  Shepard  had 
been  a  pastor  in  Charlestown;  Oakes  was  president  of  Harvard  College. 

(33)  A  POEM  DEDICATED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  REVEREND  AND  EXCELLENT 
MR.  URIAN  OAKES.    Lines  276-91,  334-64,  427-30.    The  text  is  that  of  the  1682 
edition,  from  a  copy  in  the  Harris  Collection,  Brown  University  Library.     The 
elegy  is  attributed  to  Cotton  Mather.     Oakes  was  president  of  Harvard  College  and 
pastor  of  the  Cambridge  church,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  in  1681.     U  3.  /»  Name  a 
Drusius:    a  play  upon  "Oakes,"  the  Latin  "Drusius"  being  derived  from  Greek 
3/>us,    "an   oak."     U  6.  famose  =  famous    (Latin  "famosus").     1f  8.  Graces  Iliad: 
i.e.,  the  Iliad  of  grace. 

(34)  Q,  10.  This  was  a   avorite  topic   or  dispute  among  mediaeval  theologians. 
H  14.  Argus:    the  subject  of  "had"  understood;    Argus  was  a  hundred-eyed  giant. 
f  16.  bore  away  the  Bell:    won  the  prize;    the  phrase  originated  at  a  time  when  a 
bell  was  the  usual  prize  at  horse  races.     H  23.  Benedict  and  Boniface:    St.  Benedict 
(480-543)  was  founder  of  the  Benedictine  order  of  monks,  who  gave  their  time  to 
prayer  and  mental  and  manual  labor;    St.  Boniface  (680-755),  "the  Apostle  of 
Germany,"   won  thousands  of   German  pagans  to  Christianity  by  his  eloquent 
preaching.     \  29.  Sinus  Abrahac  =  "  bosom  of  Abraham."    1f  36.  Sect'ryes  Hammer: 
i.e.,  Oakes,  the  hammer  which  pounded  the  sectaries,  or  dissenters  from  the  ortho 
dox  New  England  church,  the  Congregational.     1f  42.  Dicebam=*"I  was  saying," 
Dixi  =  "l  have  said." 

(35)  49.  both  Hephsibah  and  Beulah  bee:    "Thou  shall  be  called  Hephzibah, 
and  thy  land  Beulah:  for  the  Lord  delighteth  in  thee.  and  thy  land  shall  be  married." 
— Isa.  62:4. 

JOHN  GRAVE 

(35)  A  SONG  OF  SION.     Lines  11-58.     The  text  is  that  of  the  1662  edition,  from 
a  copy  in  the  Harris  Collection,  Brown  University  Library. 

ANONYMOUS 

(36)  BACONS  EPITAPH.     The  text  is  from  the  Proceedings  of  the  Massachusetts 
Historical  Society,  August,  1866,  where  it  is  printed  from  the  manuscript;    it  was 
printed,  imperfectly,  in  the  Collections  of  the  same  society  (Second  Series,  Vol.  I) 
in  1814.     The  subject  of  the  epitaph  was  Nathaniel  Bacon,  leader  of  the  rebellion 
in  Virginia,  in  1676,  who  died  just  after  taking  Jamestown.     ^  10.  there  =  their. 
(So  in  11.   18,  34.)     H  16.  Parasscellcian  =  Pa.ra.ce\s\a.n;    Paracelsus  (1493-1541),  a 
physician  in  advance  of  his  age,  worked  some  wonderful  cures  and  was  accused  of 
receiving  aid  from  evil  spirits. 

(37)  20.  The  Heathen:    the  Indians,  against  whom  Bacon  led  an  expedition, 
in  defiance  of  Governor  Berkeley,  whose  Indian  policy  was  one  cause  of  the  rebellion. 
f  28.  Child  could  =  chill  cold?     fl  29.  Lymbick  =  limbec,  still. 

NICHOLAS  NO  YES 

(37)  A  PREFATORY  POF.M.    Lines  29-60.      The  text  is  that  of  the  1702  edition 
from  a  copy  (in  the  John  Carter  Brown  Library.  Brown  University)  of  Christianus 


544  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Per  Ignem:  Or  A  Disciple  Warming  of  himself  and  Owning  of  his  Lord:  with 
Devout  and  Useful  Meditations,  Fetch'd  out  of  the  Fire,  by  a  Christian  in  a  Cold 
Season,  Sitting  before  it;  the  book  is  attributed  to  Cotton  Mather. 

(38)  A  CONSOLATORY  POEM.     Lines  i-io,   21-36,  49-54.    The  text  follows 
that  in  Stedman  and  Hutchinson's  Library  of  American  Literature. 

EBENEZER  COOK 

(39)  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR.     Lines  516-625.     The  text  is  that  of  the  1708 
edition,  from  a  copy  in  the  John  Carter  Brown  Library,  Brown  University.     Sot- 
Weed  =  tobacco.     Factor  =  agent. 

(40)  40.  Oa^  =  host. 

(41)  54.  Oronooko:    "Planters  are  usually  call'd  by  the  Name  of  Oronooko. 
from   their  Planting  Oronooko-Tobacco." — Note  in  1708  edition.      H  84.  Cokerouse: 
"Cockerouse  is  a  Man  of  Quality." — Note  in  1708  edition.      U  88.  Musmelion  = 
muskraelon. 

(42)  102.  Chinees:   "Chinees  are  a  sort  of  vermin  like  our  Bugs  in  England." — 
Note  in  1708  edition.     ^  105.  Doxy= mistress,  paramour. 

ANONYMOUS 

(42)  SONG  or  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT.    The  text  is  from  Farmer  and  Moore's 
Collections,  Historical  and  Miscellaneous  (1824),  Vol.  Ill,  pp.  64-66.     "The  following 

Song  was  written  about  one  hundred  years  since For  many  years  it  was  sung 

throughout  a  considerable  portion  of  New-Hampshire  and  Massachusetts." — Edi 
tors.  In  1724  the  Indians,  spurred  on  by  the  French,  began  to  threaten  the  northern 
parts  of  New  England.  The  Massachusetts  General  Court  having  promised  two 
shillings  sixpence  for  each  day  of  service,  and  a  hundred  pounds  for  every  Indian  scalp, 
Captain  Lovewell  with  a  small  force  of  volunteers  made  two  expeditions  and  brought 
back  several  scalps.  On  April  15,  1725,  he  started  from  Dunstable,  Mass.,  with 
forty-six  men,  intending  to  carry  the  war  farther  north.  He  built  a  fort  on  Lake 
Ossipee,  in  New  Hampshire,  and  left  in  it  a  reserve  of  men  and  provisions.  With 
thirty-four  men  he  pushed  on  some  forty  miles  to  what  is  now  called  Lovewell's 
Pond,  near  Fryeburg,  Maine,  just  over  the  New  Hampshire  line,  in  the  country 
of  the  Pequaket  Indians.  Here  occurred  the  fight  described  in  the  ballad.  How 
closely  the  ballad  follows  the  facts  may  be  seen  by  comparing  it  with  the  account 
published  in  The  Boston  News-Letter  of  May  20-27.  "Early  on  Saturday  Morning, 
the  8th  Instant,  the  English  discover'd  an  Indian  on  a  Neck  of  Land  which  runs 
into  a  Pond,  and  by  his  Actions  judg'd  there  were  a  considerable  Number  of  Indians 
near  the  Pond,  and  that  he  was  set  on  purpose  to  draw  the  English  upon  the  Neck. 
They  therefore  laid  down  their  Packs  (that  they  might  be  ready  to  receive  the 
Enemy's  Attacks)  when  they  had  about  two  Miles  to  Travel  round  the  Pond,  to 
come  at  the  Indian  upon  the  Necjs..  When  they  came  within  Gun-shot  of  him,  he 
fir'd  one  Gun,  and  slightly  wounded  Capt.  Lovewell  and  one  of  his  Men  with  Beaver 
Shot.  Several  of  the  English  immediately  fir'd  upon  him,  kill'd  and  scalp'd  him; 
and  returning  to  the  place  where  they  left  their  Packs,  before  they  could  reach  it  one 
of  the  English  discover'd  an  Indian,  and  calling  out  to  the  rest,  the  Indians  rose  up 


NOTES  545 


from  their  Ambush,  shouted,  and  fir'd,  as  did  the  English  at  the  same  Instant. 
The  Indians  were  reckon'd  at  least  80  in  number,  and  Capt.  Lovewell's  Company 
consisted  of  but  34,  nine  men  and  the  Doctor  being  left  about  50  miles  distant  with 
a  sick  man.  After  the  first  Fire,  the  Indians  advanc'd  with  great  Fury  towards 
the  English,  with  their  Hatchets  in  their  Hands,  the  English  likewise  running  up 
t>  them,  till  they  came  within  4  or  5  Yards  of  the  Enemy  and  were  even  mix'd  up 
among  them,  when,  the  Dispute  growing  too  warm  for  the  Indians,  they  gave  back, 
and  endeavour'd  to  encompass  the  English,  who  then  retreated  to  the  Pond,  in  order 
to  have  their  Rear  cover'd,  where  they  continu'd  the  Fight  till  Night.  During  the 
Fight  the  Indians  call'd  to  them  to  take  Quarter,  but  were  answer'd  that  they  would 
fcave  it  with  the  Muzzles  of  their  Guns.  About  two  Hours  before  Night  the  Indians 
drew  off,  and  presently  came  on  again;  and  their  Shout  then  compar'd  with  the 
first,  it  was  thought  half  their  Number  at  Least  were  kill'd  and  wounded.  Of  the 
chief  among  the  English,  Capt.  Lovewell,  Lieut.  Fairwell,  and  Ensign  Robins  wen 
Mortally  wounded  at  the  beginning  of  the  Fight,  and  Mr.  Fry,  their  Chaplain,  in 
about  Five  Hours  after,  having  fought  with  undaunted  Courage,  and  scalp'd  one  of 
the  Indians  in  the  Heat  of  the  Engagement.  Eight  of  the  English  dy'd  on  the  Spot, 
and  Q  were  wounded,  4  of  which  Number  were  just  expiring  when  they  came  away  at 
Night,  and  the  rest  they  brought  off  several  Miles,  but  were  oblig'd  to  leave  them 
with  what  Provisions  they  had,  when  they  were  unable  to  travel  with  them.  Sixteen 
of  our  Men  are  return 'd,  tho'  they  had  no  Provision  but  what  they  caught  in  the 
Woods,  the  Indians  having  got  all  their  Packs  before  the  Fight.  T  is  thought  that 
not  above  20  of  the  Indians  went  off  well  at  Night:  but  tho'  we  cannot  have  a  certain 
Account  of  the  Loss,  yet  it  is  evident  that  it  was  very  great,  and  they  were  afraid 
of  another  Engagement;  for  tho'  our  Men  staid  several  Hours  after  the  Fight,  and 
the  Indians  knew  they  had  no  Provision,  yet  they  neither  endeavour'd  to  keep  them 
there  nor  way-laid  them  in  their  Return  Home.  His  Honour  the  Lieut.  Governour 
has  been  pleas'd  to  grant  a  Captain's  Commission  to  Lieut.  VVyman,  who 
distinguish'd  himself  with  great  Courage  and  Conduct  during  the  whole  of  the 
Engagement." 

MATHER  BYLES 

(44)  AN  ELEGY  ADDRESS'D  TO  His  EXCELLENCY  GOVERNOUR  BELCHER.     Lines 
40-74.     The  text  is  from  an  undated  early  edition  in  the  Harris  Collection,  Brown 
University  Library. 

JOSEPH  GREEN 

(45)  THE  POET'S  LAMENTATION  FOR  THE  Loss  OF  His  CAT     The  text  follows 
that  in  Duyckinck's  Cyclopedia  of  American  Literature,  where  it  is  reprinted  from 
The  London  Magazine,  November,  1733.     "The  Poet"  is  Mather  Byles. 

ANONYMOUS 

(46)  COMMENCEMENT.    The  text  is  that  in  A  Collection  of  Poems,  by  several 
Hands  (1744),  from  a  copy  in  the  Harris  Collection,  Brown  University  Library. 
The  poem  describes  a   Commencement   at    Harvard   College.     ^  a.  commencing: 


540  AMERICAN  POEMS 


taking  their  degrees;   from  an  old  phrase  used  in  Cambridge  University,  "to  com 
mence  A.B.,"  etc., 

(48)  63.  calashes:    light  coaches. 

(49)  106.  cully' s= dupes.     K  117.  head:    the  president  of  the  college.     \  118. 
senate:     the    faculty.     U  119.  levi's   tribe:     the    clergymen.     H  122.  sacred    dome. 
Harvard  Commencements  at  this  time  were  held  in  the  First  Congregational  Church. 

(50)  144.  chief:    the  president.     H  145-  book:    "The  President  conferred  the 
Bachelors'  degree  by  delivering  a  book  to  the  candidates  ....  and  pronouncing 
a  form  of  words  in  Latin." — Josiah  Quincy,  The  History  of  Harvard  University, 
Vol.  I,  p.  445- 

(51)  183.  second  laurels  wear:    take  their   second  degrees.     U  184.  laurels  =• 
laureates.     \  194-97.  Phidias,  the  Greek  sculptor  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.,  cut  his 
own  figure  in  a  battle  scene  upon  the  shield  of  his  famous  statue  of  Athena  (not  of 
Jove),     f  198.  umbrage  =  shadow. 

JOHN  MAYLEM 

(51)  THE  CONQUEST  OF  LOUISBURG.     Lines  170-215.    The  text  is  from  an 
undated  early  edition  in  the  cabinet  of  the  Rhode  Island  Historical  Society.     Louis- 
burg,  Nova  Scotia,  was  captured  by  the  British  and  American  forces,  under  General 
Amherst,  in  1758,  during  the  French  and  Indian  War. 

(52)  6.  young  Scipio:    the  younger  Roman  general  of  that  name;    he  took 
Carthage,  in  146  B.C.     H  n.  Myrmidons:   in  Homer  the  name  of  the  warriors  that 
Achilles  led  to  the  Trojan  War;   it  came  to  be  used  for  any  brave  soldiers.     H  27. 
powaws= war-whoops.     H  39.  Peleus'  mighty  son:    Achilles.     U  42.  Alcides  =*" son 
of  Aloeus,"  Heracles,     the  Scythian  God:  the  Greeks  gave  the  name  of  their  war-god, 
Ares,  to  one  of  the  gods  of  the  Scythians. 

THOMAS  GODFREY 

The  text,  with  the  exception  noted,  is  from  the  1765  edition. 

(53)  THE  INVITATION.     First  published  in  The  American  Magazine,  January 
20,  1758,  from  which  the  text  is  taken. 

(54)  THE  COURT  OF  FANCY.     Lines  1-76.    First  published  in  The  American 
Magazine. 

(55)  57,  58,  Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  V.  254,  255: 

the  gate  self-opened  wide, 
On  golden  hinges  turning 

(56)  THE  PRINCE  OF  PARTHIA.     Act  I,  scene  i.    The  scene  is  Ctesiphon, 
capital  of  Parthia.     The  time  is  just  after  a  victory  over  Arabia  by  Arsaces,  eldest 
son  of  the  Parthian  king.     Gotarzes  is  the  youngest  son;  Phraates  is  a  counsellor. 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"Our  readers  may  recollect,  in  our  January  magazine,  a  most  beautiful  and 
delicate  little  performance  called  'The  Invitation,'  and  likewise  in  our  last  magazine 
'An  Ode  on  Friendship.'  Both  these  were  the  production  of  young  Mr.  Godjrey, 
as  is  the  following  'Ode  on  Wine,'  which  is  written  with  much  poetic  warmth,  tho' 
a  rigid  critic  may  perhaps  find  reason  to  object  to  the  Matter  and  Machinery  of  it 


NOTES  547 


But  what  will  ever  place  him  high  in  the  list  of  Poets  (when  it  shall  have  received  his 
last  hand)  is  a  poem  of  considerable  length,  called  'The  Court  of  Fancy';  a  subject 
which  none  but  an  elevated  and  daring  genius  durst  attempt  with  any  degree  of 
success,  in  managing  which  he  shines  in  all  the  spirit  of  true  creative  Poetry,  far 
above  the  common  herd  of  versifiers  and  others  too  commonly  honoured  with  the 
appellation  of  Poets." — The  American  Magazine,  Septeriber,  1758. 

ROBERT  ROGERS 

(60)  PONTEACH.  Act  I,  scene  i;  Act  II,  scene  2,  11.  1-82.  The  text  is  that  of 
the  1766  edition,  from  a  copy  in  the  Harris  Collection,  Brown  University  Library. 
The  play  is  anonymous,  but  is  attributed  to  Major  Robert  Rogers,  an  American 
officer  in  the  French  and  Indian  War.  It  is  based  upon  the  conspiracy  of  Pontiac, 
the  Indian  chief,  who  united  many  tribes  in  a  grand  attack  upon  the  English  frontier, 
in  1763;  he  took  several  outposts,  but  failed  in  the  siege  of  Detroit,  and  his  forces 
dwindled  away.  In  the  play,  however,  the  failure  of  the  war  is  represented  as  due 
to  the  treachery  of  an  Indian  conjurer  and  a  French  priest  and  .o  a  fatal  quarrel 
between  Pontiac's  two  sons. 

PHILLIS  WHEATLEY 

In  the  1773  edition  is  the  following  statement,  signed  by  the  Governor,  by  John 
Hancock,  and  by  sixteen  other  prominent  men  of  Boston:  "We  whose  Names  are 
under-written,  do  assure  the  World,  that  the  POEMS  specified  in  the  following  Page, 
were  (as  we  verily  believe)  written  by  PHILLIS,  a  young  Negro  Girl,  who  was  but  a 
few  Years  since,  brought  an  uncultivated  Barbarian  from  Africa,  and  has  ever 
since  been,  and  now  is,  under  the  Disadvantage  of  serving  as  a  Slave  in  a  Family  in 
this  Town.  She  has  been  examined  by  some  of  the  best  Judges,  and  is  thought 
qualified  to  write  them."  Her  master,  John  Wheatley,  further  attests  that  "she, 
in  sixteen  Months  Time  from  her  Arrival,  attained  the  English  Language,  to  which 
»he  was  an  utter  Stranger  before,  to  such  a  Degree,  as  to  read  any,  the  most  difficult 
Parts  of  the  Sacred  Writings,  to  the  great  Astonishment  of  all  who  heard  her." 

POEMS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

The  text,  with  the  exceptions  noted,  is  from  Songs  and  Ballads  of  the  American 
Revolution,  edited  by  Frank  Moore. 

(66)  TIIE  LIBERTY  SONG.  First  published  in  The  Boston  Gazette,  and  soon 
copied  in  most  of  the  newspapers  of  New  England.  The  author,  John  Dickinson, 
had  published,  the  year  before  a  series  of  widely  read  letters  on  the  political  situa 
tion,  Letters  from  a  Farmer  in  Pennsylvania  to  the  Inhabitants  of  the  British  Colonies: 
later  he  was  a  member  of  the  Continental  Congress  and  governor  of  Pennsylvania. 

(68)  A  NEW  SONG.     First  published  in  The  Pennsylvania  Packet  soon  after 
the  "Boston  Tea-Party."     H  IS-  Hampden  ....  Sidney:    leaders  in  the  struggle 
against  Charles  I. 

(69)  VIRGINIA  BANISHING  TEA.     Said  to  have  been  written  by  a  young  Virgin 
ian  lady      H  7.  North:  Lord  North,  the  subservient  minister  of  George  III.     \  15. 
Gage:  coruncuvnHer-in-chief  of  the  British  troops  in  North  America. 


548  AMERICAN  POEMS 


(70)  THE  YANKEE'S  RETURN  FROM  CAMP.    The  text  is  from  Duyckinck's 
Cyclopaedia  of  A  merican  Literature,  where  it  is  printed  from  a  broadside  published  in 
1813  by  Isaiah  Thomas.     The  poem  describes  the  visit  of  a  farmer  boy  to  the 
American  camp  outside  Boston,   where  the  British  army  was  shut  up.     ^  17. 
nvamf>ing= very  big.    K  24.  a  nation  =  very,  extremely.    ("A  euphemistic  abbrevia 
tion  of  'damnation'." — A  New  English  Dictionary.) 

(71)  47.  tarnal  = eternal. 

(71)  NATHAN  HALE.  Nathan  Hale,  a  graduate  of  Yale  College  in  1773,  became 
a  captain  in  the  American  army;  in  1776,  to  get  information  desired  by  Washington, 
he  went  as  a  spy  into  the  British  lines  at  New  York,  was  captured,  taken  before 
General  Howe,  and  executed  the  next  day,  meeting  his  death  with  calm  courage 
although  denied  the  attendance  of  a  clergyman  or  the  use  of  a  Bible. 

(73)  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  KEGS.    In  January,  1778,  an  American  inventor, 
David  Bushnell,  made  some  crude  torpedoes,  consisting  of  kegs  rilled  with  powder 
and  machinery  for  exploding  it,  and  set  them  afloat  among  the  British  shipping  at 
Philadelphia;    they  caused  small  damage  but  great  alarm,  and  occasioned  this 
ballad. 

(74)  33.  Sir  William:    General  Howe,  commander  of  the  British  forces  in 
Philadelphia.     ^  42.  Erskine:  a  British  general. 

(75)  THE  BRITISH  LIGHT-INFANTRY.    The  text  is  from  The  Loyalist  Poetry  of 
the  Revolution,  edited  by  Winthrop  Sargent.     The  song  was  first  published  in 
Rivinglon's  Royal  Gazette,  a  Tory  newspaper  in  New  York. 

(76)  ii.  Wayne  ....  Baylor:   American  officers,  whose  forces  had  been  sur 
prised  by  night.     H  13.  messenger  of  Jove:  Mercury,  or  Hermes,  who  is  represented 
in  sculpture  as  just  descended  to  earth  and  lightly  poised  on  one  toe;  he  has  wings 
on  his  heels  and  cap,  and  carries  a  caduceus — a  staff  with  two  intertwining  serpents 
on  it  (see  11.  17,  18). 

(76)  THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW.    The  text  is  from  The  Loyalist  Poetry 
of  the  Revolution.     The  song  was  first  published  in  Rivington's  Royal  Gazette.     H  13. 
King  Congo:    a  contemptuous  term  for  democracy,  under  the  figure  of  a  Negro 
King.     T  14.  thirteen  stripes:    an  allusion  to  the  American  flag.     H  15.  Clinton's: 
General  Clinton  succeeded  Howe  as  British  commander-in-chief  in  1778. 

(77)  22.  Byron:    a  British  admiral,  then  in  command  of  a  fleet  in  American 
waters;   he  was  a  grand-uncle  of  the  poet  Byron. 

(77)  THE  AMERICAN  TIMES.     Part  I.  215-52.    The  text  is  from  The  Loyalist 
Poetry  of  the  Revolution. 

(78)  23,  24.  "John  Roberts  and  Abraham  Carlisle  were  in  1778  hanged  for 

treason  at  Philadelphia General  Reed  was  of  counsel  for  the  state  in  the 

prosecution,  and  Chief-Justice  McKean  was  the  presiding  judge."— Sargent. 

HUGH  H.  BRACKENRIDGE 

(78)  THE  BATTLE  OF  BUNKERS-HILL.  Act  V.  The  text  is  that  of  the  1776 
edition,  from  a  copy  in  the  Harris  Collection,  Brown  University  Library.  The 
first  four  acts  represent  the  consultations  of  the  leaders  on  both  sides  and  their 
preparations  for  defending  and  for  attacking  Bunker  Hill. 


NOTES  549 


(78)  Scene  I. 

(79)  23.  Cf.  Julius  Casar,  IV,  iii.  18:   "Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March 
remember." 

(81)  Scene  4.     H  27.  Brutus:    he  led  the  revolt  which  drove  out  Tarquin,  the 
last  king  of  early  Rome.   Hampden,  Sidney:  leaders  in  the  struggle  against  Charles  I. 

(82)  41.  proof =lest,  trial. 

(83)  Scene  6.     H  12.  Achilles-like:   Achilles  slew  many  Trojans  in  revenge  for 
the  death  of  his  friend  Patroclus. 

(84)  Scene  Q.     K  16.  "/4  darkness  visible":    cf.  Paradise  Lost,  I,  62,  63: 

yet  from  those  flames 
No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible. 

(85)  Scene  10. 

(86)  71-73.     See  the  Iliad,  viii.  75-77:    "And  the  god  thundered  aloud  from 
Ida,  and  sent  his  blazing  flash  amid  the  host  of  the  Achaians;  and  they  saw  and  were 
astonished,  and  pale  fear  gat  hold  upon  all." — Lang,  Leaf,  and  Myers's  translation. 

(87)  76.  Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  I.  46:   "With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion  down." 

JOHN  TRUMBULL 

The  text  is  from  the  author's  revised  edition  of  1820. 

(87)  TIIE  PROGRESS  OF  DULNESS.  Part  I.  1-42,  63-86  291-98,  365-416, 
479-506;  Part  III.  87-182,  259-306,  335-46. 

(87)  Part  I.  "The  subject  is  the  state  of  the  times  in  regard  to  literature  and 
religion.  The  author  was  prompted  to  write  by  a  hope  that  it  might  be  of  use  to 
point  out,  in  a  clear,  concise,  and  striking  manner,  those  general  errors  that  hinder 

the  advantages  of  education  and  the  growth  of  piety This  first  part  .... 

exemplifies  the  following  well-known  truths:  ....  that,  except  in  one  neighboring 
province,  ignorance  wanders  unmolested  at  our  colleges  .....;  that  the  mere 
knowledge  of  ancient  languages,  of  the  abstruser  parts  of  mathematics,  and  the 
dark  researches  of  metaphysics  is  of  little  advantage  in  any  business  or  profession 
in  life;  that  it  would  be  more  beneficial,  in  every  place  of  public  education,  to  take 
pains  in  teaching  the  elements  of  oratory,  the  grammar  of  the  English  tongue,  and 
the  elegancies  of  style  and  composition;  that,  in  numberless  instances,  sufficient  care 
hath  not  been  taken  to  exclude  the  ignorant  and  irreligious  from  the  sacred  desk." 
— Preface  to  the  1772  edition. 

(91)  Part  III.  "My  design  in  this  poem  is  to  show  that  the  foibles  we 
discover  in  the  fair  sex  arise  principally  from  the  neglect  of  their  education  and  the 
mistaken  notions  they  imbibe  in  their  early  youth.  This  naturally  introduced  a  de 
scription  of  these  foibles,  which  I  have  endeavored  to  laugh  at  with  good  humour 
and  to  expose  without  malevolence." — Preface  to  the  1773  edition. 

(95)  M'FiNGAL.  Canto  I.  1-16,  109-66,  255-82,  363-78,  401-32;  Canto 
III.  1-62,  289-94,  311-422,  511-612. 

(95)  Canto  I.  H  n,  12.  Lord  Percy,  who  commanded  the  British  forces  at 
the  battle  of  Lexington,  was  descended  from  Earl  Percy,  whose  fight  with  Earl 
Douglas  at  Otterburn,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  is  the  subject  of  the  famous  old 


550  AMERICAN  POEMS 


ballad  of  "Chevy  Chase";  the  allusion  would  be  more  pertinent  if  Earl  Percy  had 
not  been  victorious. 

(96)  44.  According  to  legend,  when  the  Gauls  sacked  Rome,  in  390  B.C.,  they 
were  profoundly  impressed  by  the  sight  of  the  Roman  senators  sitting  unmoved  in 
the  Forum. 

(98)  1 26.  carte  and  tierce:   fencing  terms,  indicating  certain  methods  of  thrust 
ing  with  the  sword. 

(99)  Canto  III.  T  n.  Brobdignagian:    the  Brobdignags,  in  Swift's  Gulliver's 
Travels,  are  giants  sixty  feet  tall.     H  12.  Paradise  Lost,  I.  292-96: 

His  spear — to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  ammiral,  were  but  a  wand — 
He  walked  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps 
Over  the  burning  marl. 

H  15,  1 6.  "It  would  doubtless  be  wrong  to  imagine  that  the  stripes  bear  any  allusion 
to  the  slave  trade." — TrumbiuTs  note  in  the  1820  edition.  ^  22.  flip:  "Aliquot 
composed  of  beer,  rum,  and  sugar." — Trumbull's  note.  U  28.  Circe:  a  beautiful 
sorceress  in  the  Odyssey,  whose  charmed  cup  changed  men  to  swine. 

(100)  60,   61.     See  Num.   21:4-9. 

(104)  241.  Maia's  son:   Hermes. 

(105)  257.    /e<w/=lest. 

DAVID  HUMPHREYS 

(106)  THE  HAPPINESS  OF  AMERICA.     Line  131-206.    The  text  is    from  the 
1786  edition.     H  i,  2.     Cf.  Virgil,  Georgics,  ii.  458,  459: 

O  fortunatos  nimium,  sua  si  bona  norint, 
Agricolas, 
"O  greatly  happy  tillers  of  the  field,  if  they  had  known  their  own  good  fortune." 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 

(108)  THE  CONQUEST  OF  CANAAN.    Book  XI.  515-88.   The  text  is  from  the 
1785  edition.     The  poem  is  based  on  the  Old  Testament  Book  of  Joshua,  and 
recounts  the  story  of  the  conquest  of  Canaan  by  the  Jews;   the  selection  describes 
a  part  of  the  last  battle,  in  which  Joshua  defeats  Zedeck  (Bible  form,  "Adoni- 
Zedec"),  king  of  Jerusalem  (see  Josh.,  chap.  10). 

(109)  53.  Longa's:   Long  Island's. 

(110)  GREENFIELD   HILL.     Part  II.  1-40,  67^90,  345-90;    Part  IV,  stanzas 
1-13.    The  text  is  from  the  1794  edition.     "In  the  Parish  of  Greenfield,  in  the 
Town  of  Fairfield,  in  Connecticut,  there  is  a  pleasant  and  beautiful  eminence  called 
Greenfield  Hill,  at  the  distance  of  three  miles  from  Long-Island  Sound.     On  this 
eminence  there  is  a  small  but  handsome  Village,  a  Church    Academy,  &c.,  all  of 

them  alluded  to  in  the  following  Poem On  this  height  the  Writer  is  supposed 

to  stand Originally  the  writer  designed  to  imitate,  in  the  several  parts,  the 

manner  of  as  many  British  Poets;  but  finding  himself  too  much  occupied,  when  he 
projected  the  publication,  to  pursue  that  design,  he  relinquished  it.     The  little 


NOTES  551 


appearance  of  such  a  design,  still  remaining,  was  the  result  of  distant  and  general 
recollection." — Introduction. 

(110)  Part  II.  "This  part  of  the  poem,  though  appropriated  to  the  parish  of 
Greenfield,  may  be  considered  as  a  general  description  of  the  towns  and  villages  of 
New  England,  those  only  excepted  which  are  either  commercial,  new,  or  situated  on  a 

barren  soil It  will  easily  be  discovered  by  the  reader  that  this  part  of 

the  poem  is  designed  to  illustrate  the  effects  of  the  state  of  property,  which  is  the 
counter-part  to  that  so  beautifully  exhibited  by  Dr.  Goldsmith  in  the  'Deserted 
Village.'" — Dwight's  note. 

(112)  94.  desipient  =  trifling,  playful.  H  96.  The  reference  is  to  Pope's  trans 
lation  of  Homer.  "Maeonian"  is  used  of  Homer,  because  "Maeonia"  was  an  early 
name  for  Lydia,  in  Asia  Minor,  one  of  the  reputed  birthplaces  of  the  poet.  1f  99. 
mi-worth's:  Dilworth  was  the  author  of  a  widely  used  arithmetic. 

(112)  Part  IV. 

(113)  14.  Timur:    Tamerlane,  the  oriental  conqueror,  who  in  the  latter  half 
of  the  fourteenth  century  subjugated  central  Asia  and  a  large  part  of  India;    his 
capital  was  Samarkand,  in  Asiatic  Russia.    H  38.  dczmon  chiefs:  "Demons,  according 
to  the  opinions  of  the  ancient  heathens,  were  beings  of  a  middle  character,  between 
gods  and  men.     The  souls  of  departed  heroes  were  ranked  in  this  class  of  beings." — 
Dwight's  note.     \  43.  trident:   symbo  of  command  of  the  sea,  because  the  trident 
was  the  scepter  of  Neptune. 

(114)  46.  Albion:    England;    an  old  Celtic  name  ("Literally  'white  land,' 
with  reference  to  the  chalk  cliffs  of  the  southern  coast." — The  Century  Dictionary.) 
^  50.  Tyrian:    the  Tynans  were  the  great  sea-traders  in  ancient  times,  like  the 
English  in  modern  times.     H  70.  vain:    helpless  to  prevent  the  oak's  fall.     ^  71. 
filial  stem:   the  allusion  to  the  United  States  is  evident. 

JOEL  BARLOW 

(116)  THE  VISION  OF  COLUMBUS  Book  I.  1-170  Book  V.  383-418.  The 
text  is  from  the  1793  "corrected"  edition. 

(120)  The  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  The  following  lines,  with  which  the  corre 
sponding  passage  in  The  Columbiad  begins  (Book  V.  471-92),  may  serve  as  a  sample 
of  the  bombast  which  often  disfigures  the  later  version: 

Columbus  turn'd:  when,  rolling  to  the  shore. 

Swells  o'er  the  seas  an  undulating  roar; 

Slow,  dark,  portenous,  as  the  meteors  sweep 

And  curtain  black  the  illimitable  deep, 

High  stalks,  from  surge  to  surge,  a  demon  Form 

That  howls  thro  heaven  and  breathes  a  billowing  storm. 

His  head  is  hung  with  clouds;  his  giant  hand 

Flings  a  blue  flame  far  flickering  to  the  land; 

His  blood-stain 'd  limbs  drip  carnage  as  he  strides, 

And  taint  with  gory  grume  the  staggering  tides; 

Like  two  red  suns  his  quivering  eyeballs  glare; 

His  mouth  disgorges  all  the  stores  of  war — 

Pikes,  muskets,  mortars,  guns,  and  globes  of  fire, 

And  lighted  bombs  that  fusing  trails  expire. 


552  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Perch  t  on  his  helmet,  two  twin  sisters  rode, 
The  favorite  offspring  of  the  murderous  god, 
Famine  and  Pestilence;  whom  whilom  bore 
His  wife,  grim  Discord,  on  Trinacria's  shore, 
When  first  their  Cyclop  sons,  from  Etna's  forge, 
Fill'd  his  foul  magazine,  his  gaping  gorge: 
Then  earth  convulsive  groan'd,  high  shriek'd  the  air, 
And  hell  in  gratulation  call'd  him  War. 

(121)  THE  COLUMBIAD.  Book  X.  527-642.  The  text  is  from  a  copy  of  the 
1807  edition,  with  manuscript  corrections  apparently  in  the  author's  hand,  in  the 
Harris  Collection,  Brown  University  Library.  H  i.  he:  Columbus,  who,  under 
the  influence  of  Hesper,  the  angel  of  the  West,  is  still  enjoying  a  vision  of  the  future 
of  the  world. 

(123)  77.  pagod=\do\. 

(124)  THE  HASTY-PUDDING.    The  text  is  from  the  New  Haven  1796  edition. 
On  the  title-page  of  the  early  editions  is  Horace's  famous  line,  "Omne  tulit  punctum 
qui  miscuit  utile  dulci,"  with  a  humorous  translation,  "He  makes  a  good  breakfast 
who  mixes  pudding  with  molasses."     "  A  simplicity  in  diet,  whether  it  be  considered 
with  reference  to  the  happiness  of  individuals  or  the  prosperity  of  a  nation,  is  of  more 
consequence  than  we   are  apt   to  imagine.     In  recommending   so  important  an 
object  to  the  rational  part  of  mankind,  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  do  it  in  such  a 

manner  as  would  be  likely  to  gain  their  attention Whether  the  manner  I 

have  chosen  ....  be  such  as  to  promise  any  success  is  what  I  cannot  decide; 
but  I  certainly  had  hopes  of  doing  some  good,  or  I  should  not  have  taken  the  pains 
of  putting  so  many  rhymes  together." — Preface  to  the  1799  edition. 

(124)  Canto  I.     H  3,  4.  The  French  Revolution  was  then  shaking  Europe. 
H  12.  still-house  =  distillery. 

(125)  51.  Oella:  a  Peruvian  princess,  who  is  said  to  have  discovered  the  art  of 
spinning;   see  The  Vision  of  Columbus,  Book  II.  406  ff. 

(130)  Canto  III. 

(132)  54.  dries:   from  the  Salem  1799  edition;   the  1796  edition  has  "drives." 


PHILIP  FRENEAU 

The  text,  with  the  exceptions  noted,  is  from  the  1809  edition. 

(133)  THE   BEAUTIES  OF  SANTA   CRUZ.    Stanzas   1-3,   8-10,    19-21,   3i~34. 
48-51,  99-101.    The  text  is  from  the  1786  edition.     First  published  in  The  United 
States  Magazine.     Freneau  lived  in  Santa  Cruz,  one  of  the  West  Indies,  during 

1775-77- 

(134)  19.  that  remoter  isle:    the  island,  in  the  Mediterranean,  where  ^olus, 
the  god  of  the  winds,  kept  them  shut  up  in  caverns. 

(135)  THE  HOUSE  OF  NIGHT.    Stanzas  6-18,  23-30,  52-63,  88-102,  109-18, 
125-31.     The  text  is  from  the  1786  edition.     First  published  in  The  United  States 
Magazine.     "This  Poem  is  founded  upon  the  authority  of  Scripture,  inasmuch  as 
these  sacred  books  assert  that  the  last  enemy  that  shall  be  conquered  is  Death.'  — 
Prefatory  "Advertisement." 


NOTES  553 


(138)  88.  Bohea  =  b\zck  tea.  (139)  145-56.  "This  reflects  upon  the  inhu 
manity  of  those  men,  who,  not  to  mention  an  enemy,  would  scarcely  cover  a  departed 
friend  with  a  little  dust  without  certainty  of  reward  for  so  doing." — Freneau. 

(141)  203,  204.  See  Paradise  Lost,  II   648  ff. 

(142)  251.     See  Ps.  137- 

(143)  THE  BRITISH  PRISON  SHIP.     Canto  II.  55-04-    In   1780  the  ship  in 
which  Freneau  was  voyaging  to  the  West  Indies  was  captured  by  a  British  man-of- 
war,  and  he  lay  for  several  weeks  in  a  prison  ship  and  a  hospital  ship  at  New  York. 
K  31.  review  =  see  again. 

(144)  To  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  BRAVE  AMERICANS.     First  published  in  Th\ 
fittinan*  Journal.     The  Americans'  loss  in  this  battle,  including  killed,  wounded, 
and  missing,  was  554.     \  20.  Cf.  Scott's  Marmion  (1808),  introduction  to  Canto 
III,  1.  64,  "And  snatched  the  spear  but  left  the  shield." 

(145)  THE   POLITICAL  BALANCE.     Stanzas   1-3,   6-12,  31-37.   42-45.  51-60. 
First  published  in   The  Freeman's  Journal,  "filling  the  entire  first  page"  (Pattee). 
If  22.  Virgin  ....  Scales:    these  two  signs  of  the  Zodiac  are  next  each  other. 

(146)  47.  Libra:   Latin  for  "Scales." 

(147)  78.  Skie:  a  small  island  off  the  coast  of  Scotland.     fl  88.  A  ship  of  first 
rate:  a  war  vessel  of  the  greatest  size  and  power.     ^  93.  Momus:  the  god  of  mockery. 

(148)  124.  "It  is  hoped  that  such  a  sentiment  may  not  be  deemed  wholly 
illiberal.     Every  candid  person  will  certainly  draw  a  line  between  a  brave  and  mag 
nanimous  people  and  a  most  vicious  and  vitiating  government." — Freneau,  in 
1809  edition. 

(148)  THE  WILD  HONEY  SUCKLE.     First  published  in  The  Freeman's  Journal. 

(149)  THE  INDIAN  BURYING  GROUND. 

(150)  36.  Cf.  Thomas  Campbell's  "O'Connor's  Child"  (1810),  stanza  4,  lf», 
"The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade." 

(150)  THE  NEW  ENGLAND  SABBATH-DAY  CHACE.     First  published  in  The 
New  York  Daily  Advertiser;  a  prefatory  statement  said:   "In  several  parts  of  New 
England  it  is  customary  not  to  suffer  travellers  to  proceed  on  a  journey  on  the 

Sabbath  day The  following  lines  commemorate  an  event  of  this  sort,  which 

some  years  ago  really  befel  Mr.  P.,  the  noted  performer  in  feats  of  horsemanship." 

(151)  26.  joe:   a  Portuguese  coin  worth  about  eight  dollars. 

(152)  THE  REPUBLICAN  GENIUS  OF  EUROPE.    The  text  is  that  of  1795,  as 
reprinted  by  Pattee. 

(154)  To  A  CATY-Dro.    The  text  is  from  the  1815  edition. 

ROBERT  TREAT  PAINE 

(156)  THE  RULING  PASSION.  Lines  47-96.  The  text  is  from  the  1797  edition. 
The  poem  was  spoken  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  at  Harvard  College,  in 
1797.  If  28.  frize  =  frieze,  a  kind  of  cloth.  U  29.  ton  =  the  prevailing  fashion. 
H  34.  overflowing  yet  not  full:  "  A  parody  on  part  of  the  last  line  in  the  following 
passage  of  Denham's  'Cooper's  Hill': 

Though  deep  yet  clear;  though  gentle  yet  not  dull; 
Strong  without  rage;  without  o'erflowing  full." 

—Paine. 


554  AMERICAN  POEMS 


H  35-     Cf.  Pope's  "Essay  on  Criticism,"  11.  612-13: 

The  bookful  blockhead,  ignorantly  read, 
With  loads  of  learned  lumber  in  his  head. 

(157)  44.     JZsop's  legs:   "  /Esop,  the  Phrygian,  the  most  celebrated  fabulist  of 
antiquity,  was  not  only  disfigured  in  his  legs  but  was  deformed  in  almost  every 
other  part  of  his  body."— Paine.     Tully's  wart:  "Marcus  Tullius  Cicero,  the  father 
of  Roman  oratory,  is  said  to  have  received  his  last  appellation  from  an  uncommon 
excrescence  on  his  cheek,  resembling  a  deer,  or  vetch." — Paine.     H  45.  Gunter: 
an  English  mathematician,  who  invented  a  scale  used  hi  surveying  and  navigation. 

JOHN  NEAL 

(158)  THE  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.    Canto  I.  156-75,  253-306;  Canto  II.  23-52; 
Canto  III.  81-106.     The  text  is  from  the  1819  edition.     The  Battle  of  Niagara,  or 
Lundy's  Lane,  between  2,600  Americans  and  4,500  British,  was  fought  July  25, 
1814,  near  Niagara  Falls;    the  British  were  repulsed,  but  afterward  regained  the 
field;  the  losses  were  heavy,  amounting  to  nearly  900  on  each  side. 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE 

(161)  THE  CULPRIT  FAY.    Sections  3-8,  10-23,  24  (11.  1-14).    The  text  is 
from  the  1859  edition.     The  poem  was  written  in  the  summer  of  1819,  among  the 
Highlands  of  the  Hudson;  the  scene  is  pitched  there,  as  is  shown  by  the  reference  to 
Cronest,  a  height  overlooking  the  Hudson,  in  Section  i,  1.  7. 

(162)  25.     m'ttg  =  mica.     ^  30.  minim= tiny  (from  Latin  "minimus,"  through 
French  "minime").     H  37.  Ouphe  =  ia.\ry. 

**  (164)  104.  w arlock=  pertaining    to    imps   or    sprites;     impish.     \  107.  colen: 
a  coined  word.     \  114.  dern  =  hidden. 

(165)  165.  jellied  quarl:   the  jelly  fish. 
(168)  246.  bootle:  a  coined  word. 

HENRY  C.  KNIGHT 

(170)  A  SUMMER'S  DAY.    The  text  is  from  the  1821  edition. 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK 

(171)  MARCO  BOZZARIS.    The  text  is  from  the  1827  edition.    The  poem  was 
first  published  in  The  New  York  Review.     "Marco  Bozzaris,  the  Epaminondas  of 
modern  Greece.     He  fell  in  a  night  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi,  the  site 
of  the  ancient  Plataea,  August  20,  1823,  and  expired  in  the  moment  of  victory.     His 
last  words  were,  'To  die  for  liberty  is  a  pleasure  and  not  a  pain.'" — Note  in  the  1827 
edition.     The  fight  which  the  poem  records  was  an  incident  in  the  Greek  war  for 
independence  (1821-28),  which  resulted  in  the  liberation  of  Greece  after  more  than 
three  centuries  of  Turkish  rule.     U  13.  Suliote  band:    the  Suliotes  were  a  people 
of  mixed  Greek  and  Albanian  blood,  who  had  lived  in  Suli,  a  district  of  Albania; 
being  driven  out  by  the  Turks,  in  1822,  they  came  to  Greece  and  fought  fiercely 
In  the  war  of  independence. 


NOTES  555 


(172)  18.  old  Plataa's  day:  in  479  B.C.,  at  Plataea  in  Boeotia,  Greece,  a  force 
of  iio.ooo  Greeks  defeated  300,000  Persians,  thereby  completing  the  repulse  of  the 
invading  army  of  Xerxes. 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

(174)  A  HEALTH.    The  text  is  from  the  1825  edition. 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS 

(175)  ROARING  BROOK.    The  text  is  from  the  1837  edition. 

(176)  UNSEEN  SPIRITS.     The  text  is  from  the  1844  edition.     First  published 
in  The  New  York  Mirror,  July  29,  1843. 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE 

(177)  FLORENCE  VANE.     The  text  is  from  the  1847  edition.     A  note  in  that 
edition  says  the  poem  was  "published  some  years  ago."     U  9-16.  Cf.  Coleridge's 
"Love,"  stanzas  4  and  6: 

She  lean'd  against  the  armed  man 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lingering  light 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 
The  text,  with  the  exceptions  noted,  is  from  the  1876  edition. 

(178)  THE  EMBARGO.     Lines  1-26.    The  text  is  that  of  the  1809  edition,  from  a 
copy  in  the  Harris  Collection,  Brown  University  Library.     During  the  Napoleonic 
wars  both  France  and  Great  Britain  formally  asserted  the  right  to  interfere  with 
neutral  vessels,  whether  they  bore  contraband  of  war  or  not;    in  retaliation  the 
United  States  placed  an  embargo  on  all  merchant  vessels,  domestic  or  foreign,  in 
American  ports,  forbidding  them  to  leave  except  by  special  permission  from  the 
President.     The  act  was  very  unpopular,  especially  in  Massachusetts,  whose  sea 
trade  was  then  large.     "A  doubt  having  been  intimated  in  The  Monthly  Anthology 
of  June  last,  whether  a  youth  of  thirteen  years  could  have  been  the  author  of  this 
poem,  in  justice  to  his  merits  the  friends  of  the  writer  feel  obliged  to  certify  the 
fact  from  their  personal  knowledge  of  himself  and  his  family,  as  well  as  his  literary 

improvement  and  extraordinary  talents The  printer  is  enabled  to  disclose 

their  names  and  places  of  residence." — "Advertisement"  in  the  1809  edition.     ^  10. 
weak  ruler's:   the  reference  is  to  President  Jefferson;  as  a  student  of  French  theories 
of  government  and  religion,  he  was  supposed  to  side  with  France  and  to  favor  the 
embargo  as  a  blow  against  her  enemy.  Great  Britain,  with  whom  most  of  our  mari 
time  trade  was  done,     f  18.  "words  that  breathe  and  thoughts  that  burn'':  misquoted 
from  Gray's  "Progress  of  Poesy,"  1.  no.  "Thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that 
burn." 


556 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


(179)  THANATOPSIS.  First  published  in  The  North  American  Review,  Sep 
tember,  1817,  in  the  following  form  (including  the  punctuation): 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun,  shall  see  no  more, 
In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  th'  embrace  of  ocean  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolv'd  to  earth  again; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrend'ring  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  th'  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad  and  pierce  thy  mould. 
Yet  not  to  thy  eternal  resting  place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. — The  hills, 
Rock-ribb'd  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods — the  floods  that  move 
In  majesty, — and  the  complaining  brooks, 
That  wind  among  the  meads,  and  make  them  green. 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all, 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man. — The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven 
Are  glowing  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning — and  the  Borean  desert  pierce — 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
That  veil  Oregan,  where  he  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet — the  dead  are  there, 
And  millions  in  those  soUtudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. — 
So  shalt  thou  rest— and  what  if  thou  sbalt  fall 
Unnoticed  by  the  living — and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     Thousands  more 
Will  share  thy  destiny. — The  tittering  world 
Dance  to  the  grave.     The  busy  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  chases  as  before 
His  favourite  phantom. — Yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  theel 

The  present  form,  except  for  variations  noted  below,  appeared  in  1821. 

"I  cannot  give  any  you  information  of  the  occasion  which  suggested  to  my 
mind  the  idea  of  my  poem  'Thanatopsis.'  It  was  written  when  I  was  seventeen  or 
eighteen  years  old — I  have  not  now  at  hand  the  memorandums  which  would  enable 


NOTES  557 


me  to  be  precise — and  I  believe  it  was  composed  in  my  solitary  rambles  in  the  woods." 
—Bryant,  in  answer  to  a  letter  of  inquiry,  in  1855.  Mr.  Godwin  says,  on  thr 
authority  of  the  poet's  autobiography  (see  his  life  of  Bryant,  Vol.  I,  pp.  37,  97) 
tnat  just  before  writing  "Thanatopsis,"  in  the  summer  of  1811,  he  had  been  reading 
Henry  Kirke  White's  poems,  much  taken  with  their  melancholy  tone,  Blair's 
"Grave,"  Porteus  on  death,  Southey's  shorter  poems,  and  Cowper's  Task.  Two 
passages  from  Blair's  "Grave"  will  show  how  like  yet  unlike  the  two  poems  are: 

The  Grave,  dread  thing! 

Men  shiver  when  thou  'rt  nam'd:  nature,  appall'd, 
Shakes  off  her  wonted  firmness.     Ah,  how  dark 
Thy  long-extended  realms  and  rueful  wastes, 
Where  nought  but  silence  reigns,  and  night,  dark  night, 
Dark  as  was  chaos  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roll'd  together  or  had  tried  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound!     The  sickly  taper, 
By  glimm'ring  through  thy  low-brow'd  misty  vaults, 
Furr'd  round  with  mouldy  damps  and  ropy  slime, 
Lets  fall  a  supernumerary  horror, 

And  only  serves  to  make  thy  night  more  irksome 

What  is  this  world  ? 

What  but  a  spacious  burial-field  unwall'd, 
Strew'd  with  Death's  spoils,  the  spoils  of  animals 
Savage  and  tame,  and  full  of  dead  men's  bonesl 
The  very  turf  on  which  we  tread  once  liv'd; 
And  we  that  live  must  lend  our  carcases 
To  cover  our  own  offspring;  in  their  turns 
They  too  must  cover  theirs.     'T  is  here  all  meet: 
The  shiv'ring  Icelander,  and  sun-burnt  Moor, 
Men  of  all  climes,  that  never  met  before, 
And  of  all  creeds,  the  Jew,  the  Turk,  the  Christian. 
Here  the  proud  prince  and  favourite  yet  prouder — 
His  sovereign's  keeper  and  the  people's  scourge — 
Are  huddled  out  of  sight.     Here  lie  abash'd 
The  great  negotiators  of  the  earth, 
And  celebrated  masters  of  the  balance, 
Deep-read  in  stratagems  and  wiles  of  courts: 
Now  vain  their  treaty-skill;  Death  scorns  to  treat. 
Here  the  o'erloaded  slave  flings  down  his  burden 
From  his  gall'd  shoulders;  and  when  the  stern  tyrant 
With  all  his  guards  and  tools  of  power  about  him, 
Is  meditating  new  unheard-of  hardships, 
Mocks  his  short  arm,  and,  quick  as  thought,  escapes 
Where  tyrants  vex  not  and  the  weary  rest. 

Thanatopsis  = " view  of  death"  (Greek  ddvaros,  "death";  tytj,  "view"). 
H  7.  healing:  in  1821,  "gentle";  the  present  reading  was  adopted  in  1836.  f  32. 
thine:  before  1836,  "thy." 

(180)  52.  pierce  the  Bar  can  wilderness:  in  1821,  "and  the  Barcan  desert 
pierce";  in  1855,  "traverse  Barca's  desert  sands";  the  present  reading  was  adopted 
in  1871.  Barcan:  Barca  is  a  desert  region  in  northern  Africa.  ^  54.  Oregon: 
before  1871,  "Oregan."  The  Oregon  is  now  called  the  Columbia;  the  region 
through  which  it  flows,  now  the  state  of  Oregon,  was  then  a  complete  wilderness. 
J  SO.  withdraw:  in  1821.  "shall  fall";  the  present  reading  was  adopted  in  1836. 


558  AMERICAN  POEMS 


\6o.  In  silence  from:  in  1821,  "Unnoticed  by";  in  1*32,  "Unheeded  by";  the 
present  reading  was  adopted  in  1855.  1f  71.  In  1821: 

The  bow'd  with  age,  the  infant  in  the  smiles 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off; 

iu  1832,  "And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man";  the  present  reading 
was  adopted  in  1871.  U  75.  which:  in  1821,  "that";  the  present  reading  was 
adopted  in  1855.  \  76.  that  mysterious  realm:  in  1821,  "the  pale  realms  of  shade"; 
the  present  reading  was  adopted  hi  1832. 

(181)  THE  YELLOW  VIOLET.     Cf.  Wordsworth's  "To  the  Daisy"  (first  poem), 
especially  stanzas  3,  4,  7. 

(182)  INSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A  WOOD.    First  published  in  The 
North  American  Review,  September,  1817.     "The  wood  referred  to  was  at  Cumming- 
ton,  Mass.,  nearly  in  front  of  the  house  now  known  as  the  Bryant  Homestead." — 
Godwin.     ^  6-n.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  "Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above  Tintern 

Abbey,"  11.  22-30: 

These  beauteous  forms, 

Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  bh'nd  man's  eye; 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart, 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind 
With  tranquil  restoration. 

H  26-28.     Cf.  Wordsworth's  "Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring,"  11.  n,  12: 

And  't  is  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

(183)  39.  water:   here  the  poem  in  its  first  form  ended. 

(183)  To  A  WATERFOWL.     First  published  in  The  North  American  Review, 
March,  1818.     The  poem  was  written  on  December  15,  1815,  in  Plainfield,  Mass., 
where  the  poet  had  gone  to  make  inquiries  about  beginning  there  the  practice  of  the 
law.     "He  says  in  a  letter  that  he  felt,  as  he  walked  up  the  hills,  very  forlorn  and 

desolate  indeed,  not  knowing  what  was  to  become  of  him  in  the  big  world 

The  sun  had  already  set,  leaving  behind  it  one  of  those  brilliant  seas  of  chrysolite 
and  opal  which  often  flood  the  New  England  skies;  and  while  he  was  looking  upon 
the  rosy  splendor  with  rapt  admiration,  a  solitary  bird  made  wing  along  the  illumi 
nated  horizon.    He  watched  the  lone  wanderer  until  it  was  lost  in  the  distance,  asking 
himself  whither  it  had  come  and  to  what  far  home  it  was  flying.     When  he  went  to 
the  house  where  he  was  to  stop  for  the  night,  his  mind  was  still  full  of  what  he  had 
seen  and  felt,  and  he  wrote  those  lines,  as  imperishable  as  our  language,  'The 
Waterfowl.'" — Godwin's  life  of  Bryant,  Vol.  I,  pp.  143,  144.     1T  7-  seen  against: 
the  reading  of  the  first  form  was  "painted  on";    a  friend  objecting  that  this  was 
inconsistent  with  "floats"  (1.  8),  the  poet  changed  it  to  "limned  upon,"  then  to 
"shadowed  on,"  and  finally  to  the  present  reading. 

(184)  31.  tread:   in  1818,  "trace." 

(187)  OH  FAIREST  OF  THE  RURAL  MAIDS.     "This  poem  was  addressed,  the 


NOTES  559 


year  before  their  marriage,  to  the  lady  who  became  Mrs.  Bryant."— Godwin.     Cf 
Wordsworth's  "Three  Years  She  Grew  in  Sun  and  Shower,"  especially  stanzas  3-5: 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That,  wild  with  glee,  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm, 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her,  for  her  the  willow  bend; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her;   and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face 

(189)  MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN.  "The  mountain  called  by  this  name  is  a 
remarkable  precipice  in  Great  Barrington,  overlooking  the  rich  and  picturesque 
valley  of  the  Housatonic,  in  the  western  part  of  Massachusetts.  At  the  southern 
extremity  is,  or  was  a  few  years  since,  a  conical  pile  of  small  stones,  erected,  accord 
ing  to  the  tradition  of  the  surrounding  country,  by  the  Indians,  in  memory  of  a 
woman  of  the  Stockbridge  tribe,  who  killed  herself  by  leaping  from  the  edge  of  the 
precipice.  Until  within  a  few  years  past,  small  parties  of  that  tribe  used  to  arrive 
from  their  settlement  in  the  western  part  of  the  state  of  New  York,  on  visits  to 
Stockbridge,  the  place  of  their  nativity  and  former  residence.  A  young  woman 
belonging  to  one  of  these  parties  related,  to  a  friend  of  the  author,  the  story  on  which 
the  poem  of  'Monument  Mountain'  is  founded." — Note  in  the  1832  edition. 

(192)  A  FOREST  HYMN.     First  published  in  The  Literary  Gazette.     "This  was 
the  last  poem  that  Mr.  Bryant  wrote  during  his  residence  in  the  country,  just  before 
his  removal  to  New  York." — Godwin. 

(193)  38-47.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  "Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above  Tintern 
Abbey,"  11.  93-102: 

And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought 
And  rolls  through  all  things. 

(194)  66-68.  Cf.  the  lines  quoted  above;    also  Shelley's  "Adonais"  (1821), 
II.  478-82: 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move. 


560  AMERICAN  POEMS 


That  Benediction  which  the  clipsing  curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which,  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 

(195)  97-101.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  "Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above  Tintern 

Abbey,"  11.  107-11: 

well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  Nature,  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

(195)  JUNE.  "After  taking  up  his  residence  in  New  York  in  1825,  Mr.  Bryant 
made  a  brief  visit  to  Great  Barrington,  where  he  had  lived  for  ten  years.  During 
this  farewell  visit  this  poem  was  suggested  to  him;  and,  fifty-two  years  later,  when 
his  death  occurred  in  the  month  of  June,  it  was  generally  remarked  how  its  tender 
wishes  had  turned  into  prophecy.  He  was  buried  in  a  rural  cemetery  at  Roslyn 
amid  the  sights  and  sounds,  'Soft  airs  and  song  and  light  and  bloom,'  for  which  he 
supposes  his  soul  would  yearn  even  after  death."— Godwin. 

(197)  A  SUMMER  RAMBLE.     Cf.  Wordsworth's  "To  My  Sister": 

It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March: 
Each  minute  sweeter  than  before; 
The  redbreast  sings  from  the  tall  larch 
That  stands  beside  our  door. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  air, 
Which  seems  a  sense  of  joy  to  yield 
To  the  bare  trees  and  mountains  bare 
And  grass  in  the  green  field. 

My  sister  ('t  is  a  wish  of  mine), 
Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done, 
Make  haste,  your  morning  task  resign, 
Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

Edward  will  come  with  you:  and,  pray, 
Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress; 
And  bring  no  book,  for  this  one  day 
We  '11  give  to  idleness. 

No  joyless  forms  shall  regulate 
Our  living  calendar: 
We  from  to-day,  my  friend,  will  date 
The  opening  of  the  year. 

Love,  now  a  universal  birth, 
From  heart  to  heart  is  stealing, 
From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth: 
It  is  the  hour  of  feeling. 

One  moment  now  may  give  us  more 
Than  years  of  toiling  reason: 
Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 
The  spirit  of  the  season. 

Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  will  make, 
Which  they  shall  long  obey; 
We  for  the  year  to  come  may  take 
Our  temper  from  to-day. 


NOTES  561 


And  from  the  blessed  power  that  rolls 
About,  below,  above, 
We  "11  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls: 
They  shall  be  tuned  to  love. 

Then,  come,  my  sister;  come,  I  pray; 
With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dress; 
And  bring  no  book,  for  this  one  day 
We  '11  give  to  idleness. 

(200)  SONG  OP  MARION'S  MEN.  General  Francis  Marion,  at  the  head  of  a 
few  daring  troops,  carried  on  an  irregular  warfare  with  the  British  forces,  in  South 
Carolina,  during  the  last  years  of  the  Revolutionary  War,  making  night-attacks 
and  other  forays  from  forest  and  swamp;  the  British  were  so  harassed  by  him 
"that  they  sent  an  officer  to  remonstrate  with  him  for  not  coming  into  the  open 
field  and  fighting  'like  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian'  "  (Bryant). 

(202)  49.  Sanlee:    the  principal  river  of  South  Carolina. 

(202)  THE  PRAIRIES.     "Mr.  Bryant  first  saw  the  great  prairies  of  the  West  in 
1832,  while  on  a  visit  to  his  brothers,  who  were  among  the  early  settlers  of  the  State 
of  Illinois.     This  poem  was  the  result  of  his  visit." — Godwin.     The  poet  rode  for 
about  a  hundred  miles  over  the  prairies,  on  horseback.     U  10-15.  "The  prairies 
of  the  West,  with  an  undulating  surface,  rolling  prairies,  as  they  are  called,  present 
to  the  unaccustomed  eye  a  singular  spectacle  when  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  are 
passing  rapidly  over  them:   the  face  of  the  ground  seems  to  fluctuate  and  toss  like 
billows  of  the  sea." — Bryant. 

(203)  21.  Sonora:   one  of  the  states  of  Mexico,  bordering  on  the  Gulf  of  Cali 
fornia.    U  48.  Pentelicus:  a  mountain  near  Athens,  from  which  marble  was  quarried 
U  49.  its  rock:   the  Acropolis  of  Athens. 

(204)  64.  gopher:  a  small  burrowing  rodent. 

(207)  THE  WIND  AND  STREAM.     First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
December,  1857. 

(208)  THE  DEATH  OF  LINCOLN.     "Written,  at  the  request  of  the  Committee  of 
Arrangements,  when  the  body  of  the  murdered  President  was  carried  in  funeral 
procession  through  the  city  of  New  York,  April,  1865." — Godwin. 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"This  gentleman's  poetry  has  found  its  way,  piece-meal,  into  England,  and 
having  met  with  a  little  of  our  newspaper  praise,  which  has  been  repeated  with 
great  emphasis  in  America,  is  now  set  up  among  his  associates  for  a  poet  of 
extraordinary  promise,  on  the  ground  of  having  produced,  within  the  course  of 
several  years,  about  fifty  duodecimo  pages  of  poetry,  such  as  we  shall  give  a  speci 
men  of.  Mr.  B.  is  not,  and  never  will  be,  a  great  poet.  He  wants  fire — he  wants 
the  very  rashness  of  a  poet— the  prodigality  and  fervour  of  those  who  are  over 
flowing  with  inspiration.  Mr.  B.,  in  fact,  is  a  sensible  young  man,  of  a  thrifty 
disposition,  who  knows  how  to  manage  a  few  plain  ideas  in  a  very  handsome  way. 
....  Some  lines,  about  fifteen  or  twenty,  to  a  'water-fowl,'  which  are  very  beauti 
ful,  to  be  sure,  but  with  no  more  poetry  in  them  than  there  is  in  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount,  are  supposed,  by  his  countrymen,  'to  be  well  known  in  Europe.'" — John 
Neal,  in  Blacku<ood's  Magazine,  September,  1824. 


562  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"We  should  think  ....  that  he  were  formed  rather  for  the  beautiful  than  the 
sublime,  rather  for  pensive  tenderness  than  deep  and  harrowing  pathos,  rather  for 
the  effusions  of  fancy  and  feeling  than  for  the  creations  of  a  bold  and  fertile  imagina 
tion The  diction  of  these  poems  is  unobjectionable — and  that  is  saying  a 

great  deal.  It  is  simple  and  natural— there  is  no  straining  after  effect,  no  mere 
tricious  glare,  no  affected  point  and  brilliancy.  It  is  clear  and  precise— Mr.  Bryant 
does  not  seem  to  think  mysticism  any  element  of  the  true  sublime,  or  the  finest 
poetry  at  all  inconsistent  with  common  sense.  It  is  idiomatic  and  racy." — The 
Southern  Review,  February,  1832. 

"The  faults  of  this  poet  ....  are  the  same  in  kind,  but  not  in  degree,  with 
those  of  Willis.  He  belongs  to  the  same  school  [the  English  Lake  School],  thougb 
he  does  not  carry  its  peculiarities  to  such  a  fanatical  extent.  His  versification  is 
formed  upon  the  same  quaint  and  sluggish  model;  but  he  oftener  deviates  from  it, 
and  infuses  into  it  a  degree  of  spirit  which  renders  many  of  his  productions  not 
unpleasing  to  those  who  are  fond  of  poring  over  sentimental  stanzas  or  fragments  in 

prosing  blank  verse But  we  wish  not  to  prejudice  our  readers  against  Mr. 

Bryant's  poetry.  Throughout  the  principal  part  of  the  effusions  before  us,  he 
exhibits  a  manliness  of  thought  and  a  facility  of  expression  which,  after  the  perusal 
of  Willis's  rhapsodies,  we  found  a  real  relief  to  our  jaded  faculties.  Mr.  Bryant, 
although  he  generally  uses  the  prosaic  diction  of  the  Lake  School,  keeps  tolerably 
clear  of  its  abstruse  manner  of  thinking;  and  but  seldom  indulges  in  the  conceits 
and  occult  meanings  so  prevalent  in  the  poetry  of  that  school,  particularly  as  it  is 
written  by  Shelley,  Keats,  Willis,  and  Percival.  He  also  avoids  the  contemptible 
affectation  of  infantile  simplicity  with  which  Wordsworth  so  often  degrades  his 
pages;  but  he  has  none  of  this  amiable  but  heavy  poet's  original  vein  of  philosophical 
reflection  on  the  dispositions  of  man,  and  but  little  of  his  graphical  power  in  depict 
ing  the  appearances  of  nature." — The  American  Quarterly  Review,  March,  1832. 

"They  appear  to  me  to  belong  to  the  best  school  of  English  poetry,  and  to  be 

entitled  to  rank  among  the  highest  of  their  class The  same  keen  eye  and 

fresh  feeling  for  nature,  the  same  indigenous  style  of  thinking  and  local  peculiarity 
of  imagery  which  give  such  novelty  and  interest  to  the  pages  of  that  gifted  writer 
[Cooper]  will  be  found  to  characterize  this  volume,  condensed  into  a  narrower  com 
pass  and  sublimated  into  poetry.  The  descriptive  writings  of  Mr.  Bryant  are 
essentially  American.  They  transport  us  into  the  depths  of  the  solemn  primeval 
forest— to  the  shores  of  the  lonely  lake— the  banks  of  the  wild  nameless  stream,  or 
the  brow  of  the  rocky  upland  rising  like  a  promontory  from  amidst  a  wide  ocean 
of  foliage;  while  they  shed  around  us  the  glories  of  a  climate  fierce  in  its  extremes 
but  splendid  in  all  its  vicissitudes.  His  close  observation  of  the  phenomena  of 
nature,  and  the  graphic  felicity  of  his  details,  prevent  his  descriptions  from  ever 
becoming  general  and  commonplace;  while  he  has  the  gift  of  shedding  over  them  a 
pensive  grace  that  blends  them  all  into  harmony,  and  of  clothing  them  with  moral 
associations  that  make  them  speak  to  the  heart." — Washington  Irving,  in  the  Dedi 
cation  of  the  London  edition  of  Bryant's  "Poems,"  1832. 

"To  the  American  scenery  and  woodland  characters,  then,  let  us  first  of  all  turn; 
and  while  here  we  find  much  to  please,  we  must  strongly  express  our  dissent  from 


NOTES  563 


Mr.  Irving's  opinion  that  in  such  delineations  Bryant  is  equal  to  Cooper 

The  poet  appears  to  be  'a  man  of  milder  mood'  than  the  romancer,  and  of  finer 
taste.  But  there  is  nothing  in  the  whole  volume  comparable  in  original  power  to 

many  descriptions  in  the  Prairie  and  the  Spy His  poetry  overflows  with 

natural  religion — with  what  Wordsworth  calls  the  'religion  of  the  woods.'  This 
reverential  awe  of  the  Invisible  pervades  the  verses  entitled  'Thanatopsis'  and 
'  Forest  Hymn,'  imparting  to  them  a  sweet  solemnity  which  must  affect  all  thinking 
hearts.  There  is  little  that  is  original  either  in  the  imagery  of  the  '  Forest  Hymn'  or 
in  its  language;  but  the  sentiment  is  simple,  natural,  and  sustained,  and  the  close  is 

beautiful Compare  it  with  the  'Lines  on  revisiting  the  river  Wye,'  by  that 

great  poet  whom  Mr.  Bryant  wisely  venerates,  ....  and  it  will  be  felt,  perhaps, 
that  Mr.  Irving  rashly  says  that  his  friend's  poems  are  entitled  to  'rank  among  the 
highest  of  their  class  in  the  best  school  of  English  poetry.'  ....  'Thanatopsis' 
....  both  in  conception  and  execution  is  more  original;  and  we  quote  it  entire, 
as  a  noble  example  of  true  poetical  enthusiasm.  It  alone  would  establish  the 
author's  claim  to  the  honours  of  genius." — John  Wilson,  in  Blackwood's  Magazine, 
April,  1832. 

"Bryant  is  not  a  first-rate  poet;  but  he  has  great  power,  and  is  original  in  his 
way.  .  .  .  A  violet  becomes,  in  his  hands,  a  gem  fit  to  be  placed  in  an  imperial 
diadem;  a  mountain  leads  his  eyes  to  the  canopy  above  it.  The  woods,  the  hills, 
the  flowers — whatever,  in  short,  is  his  subject,  is  brought  before  our  eyes  with  a 
fidelity  of  delineation,  and  a  brightness  of  coloring,  which  the  actual  pencil  cannot 

rival.  The  picture  is  always  finished  to  the  minutest  particular To  equal 

if  not  excel  Thomson,  in  his  own  department  of  literature,  would  be  distinction 
enough  for  any  one  man;  but  his  excellence  in  descriptive  poetry  is  not  Mr.  Bryant's 
chief  merit.  The  bent  of  his  mind  is  essentially  contemplative.  He  loves  to  muse 

in  solitude,  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  and  on  the  high  places  of  the  hills 

His  thoughts  are  natural  and  simple,  seldom  commonplace,  and  often  sublime;  yet 

his  great  conceptions  are  never  abrupt  and  startling 'Thanatopsis'  is  the 

most  generally  known  and  esteemed  of  Bryant's  poems,  and  perhaps  deserves  its 

reputation.  It  is  sublime  throughout If  there  be  anything  within  the  whole 

compass  of  literature  more  delicate,  more  pure,  more  exquisitely  sweet  than  this 
("The  Evening  Wind"]  it  has  not  yet  fallen  under  our  observation." — The  North 
American  Review,  April,  1832. 

"Mr.  Bryant  is  not  a  literary  meteor;  he  is  not  calculated  to  dazzle  and 
astonish.  The  light  he  shines  with  is  mild  and  pure,  beneficent  in  its  influence,  and 
lending  a  tranquil  beauty  to  that  on  which  it  falls.  But  it  will  be  little  attractive, 
except  to  sobered  minds,  which  do  not  seek  their  intellectual  pleasures  in  the  racy 

draught  of  strong  excitement In  poetry  descriptive  of  the  aspects  of  nature 

Mr.  Bryant  principally  excels.  He  has  evidently  observed  accurately,  and  with  the 
eye  of  a  genuine  lover  of  natural  scenery,  and  he  describes  eloquently  and  unaffect 
edly  what  he  has  seen,  selecting  happily,  using  no  tumid  exaggeration  and  vain  pomp 
of  words,  not  perplexing  us  with  vague  redundancies,  but  laying  before  us  with 
graceful  simplicity  the  best  features  of  the  individual  scene  which  has  been  pre 
sented  to  his  eye He  has  much  of  the  descriptive  power  of  Thomson,  divested 


564  AMERICAN  POEMS 


of  the  mannerism  which  pervaded  that  period  of  our  poetry;  much  of  the  pictur- 
esqueness  of  touch  which  shines  in  the  verse  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  but  ennobled  by 
associations  which  that  great  writer  did  not  equally  summon  to  his  aid;  much  of  thfl 
fidelity  of  Wordsworth,  but  without  his  minuteness  and  occasional  overstrained  anc 
puerile  simplicity,  yet  closely  following  him  in  that  better  characteristic,  his  power 
of  elevating  the  humblest  objects  by  connection  with  some  moral  truth.  In  this 

Mr.  Bryant  eminently  shines Mr.  Bryant  cannot,  perhaps,  be  said  to  have  a 

bad  ear  for  metrical  rhythm,  but  neither  has  he  shown  a  very  good  one His 

want  of  metrical  polish  is  rendered  very  evident  by  comparison  whenever  he  has 
adopted  the  measure  of  Moore.  His  blank  verse  is  good,  and  more  satisfactory 

to  the  ear  than  his  other  poetry We  do  not  consider  him  a  first-rate  poet 

but  we  would  assign  him  an  honourable  station  in  the  second  class."— The  Foreign 
Quarterly  Review,  August,  1832. 

"The  editor  presents  us  with  no  fewer  than  twenty  specimens  from  his  poems, 
several  of  which,  such  as  his  beautiful  'Lines  to  a  Waterfowl,'  'After  a  Tempest,' 
and  'To  the  Evening  Wind,'  have  already  made  their  appearance  in  more  than  one 
of  our  British  journals.  All  of  them  are  pleasing,  many  of  them  exquisitely  so; 
but  certainly  the  epithet  'bold,'  which  the  editor  applies  to  his  manner,  appears  to  us 
singularly  inapplicable  to  the  mind  of  Bryant,  which  seems  far  more  remarkable  for 

tenderness  and  delicacy  than  power Full  of  sweet  sympathy  with  Nature's 

minutest  beauties,  as  well  as  her  more  magnificent,  are  the  lines,  'To  the  Fringed 
Gentian,'  where  the  pure  mind  of  the  author  draws  a  moral  even  from  the  flower." 
— The  Edinburgh  Review,  April,  1835. 

"Mr.  William  Cullen  Bryant  is  the  best  poet  in  America From  the 

library  of  English  poets  it  would  be  difficult  to  select  a  more  freshly  pleasing  volume 
than  Mr.  Bryant's.  It  administers  welcome  nurture  to  the  contemplative  mind. 
It  contains  but  little  to  excite  the  joyous  and  merry-hearted  to  louder  mirth,  but 
much  to  soothe  and  soften  the  elated  spirit  into  a  quietude  that  more  nearly 
approaches  true  happiness.  ' Thanatopsis '  is  not  so  sublime  as  Coleridge's  'Hymn 
in  the  Valley  of  Chamouni,'  but  its  effect  on  the  imagination  of  the  reader  is  scarcely 
less  grand.  It  is  not  so  perfect  a  production  as  the  'Elegy  in  a  Country  Church- 
Yard,'  but  its  strains  ^Eolian  sweep  through  the  mind  with  a  power  equally  sub 
duing,  for  it  breathes  the  same  'sad,  sweet  music  of  humanity.'  Its  concluding  lines 

fall  upon  the  ear  as  if  uttered  by  some  warning  angel Next,  scarcely  inferior 

to  this,  comes  the  '  Hymn  to  the  Evening  Wind.'  Either  would  of  itself  be  enough  to 
stamp  its  author  as  a  man  of  high  poetical  genius.  These  two  and  the  'Song  of 
Marion's  Men '  are  as  common  and  as  popular  in  the  United  States  as  many  of  the 
oldest  lyrics  of  the  British  bards." — The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  September, 
1839- 

'"The  Waterfowl'  is  very  beautiful,  but  still  not  entitled  to  the  admiration 
which  it  has  occasionally  elicited.  There  is  a  fidelity  and  force  in  the  picture  of  the 
fowl  as  brought  before  the  eye  of  the  mind,  and  a  fine  sense  of  ejfect  in  throwing  its 
figure  on  the  background  of  the  'crimson  sky,'  amid  'falling  dew,"  'while  glow  the 
heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day.'  But  the  merits  which  possibly  have  had  most 
weight  in  the  public  estimation  of  the  poem  are  the  melody  and  strength  of  its  versi- 


NOTES  565 


fication  (which  is  indeed  excellent),  and  more  particularly  its  completeness.  Its 

rounded  and  didactic  termination  has  done  wonders Judging  Mr.  B.  in 

this  manner,  and  by  a  general  estimate  of  the  volume  before  us,  we  should  of  course 
pause  long  before  assigning  him  a  place  with  the  spiritual  Shelleys  or  Coleridges  or 
Wordsworths,  or  with  Keats,  or  even  Tennyson  or  Wilson  or  with  some  other 
burning  lights  of  our  own  day,  to  be  valued  in  a  day  to  come." — Edgar  A.  Poe,  in 
The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  January,  1837.  "Why  his  'Thanatopsis'  has 
been  so  widely  received  and  quoted  as  his  finest  production  may  be  explained  in  part 
by  what  has  been  just  now  said  respecting  the  negative  merits  of  composition.  It  is 
quite  devoid  of  fault,  is  undoubtedly  beautiful;  and  in  judging,  absolutely,  of  the 
poems  of  Bryant,  the  public  voice  is  not  altogether  wrong  in  its  decision.  But  as 
affording  evidence  of  the  higher  powers  of  the  poet,  ....  he  himself,  if  we  do  not 
greatly  misunderstand  him,  would  select  some  other  portions  of  his  works.  Had  he 
indeed,  always  written  as  in  the  annexed  little  ballad  "Oh  Fairest  of  the  Rural 
Maids"],  he  might  have  justly  assumed  that  rank  among  the  poets  of  all  time  into 
which  our  national  pride  and  partiality  are  so  blindly  disposed  to  thrust  him  as  it 
is." — Edgar  A.  Poe,  in  Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,  May,  1840. 

"It  has  been  the  singular  felicity  of  Mr.  Bryant  that  he  has  done  whatever 
he  has  done  with  consummate  finish  and  completeness.  If  he  has  not,  as  the  critics 
often  tell  us,  the  comprehensiveness  or  philosophic  insight  of  Wordsworth,  the 
weird  fancy  of  Coleridge,  the  gorgeous  diction  of  Keats,  the  exquisite  subtlety  of 
Tennyson,  he  is,  nevertheless,  the  one  among  all  our  contemporaries  who  has  written 

the  fewest  things  carelessly  and  the  most  things  well It  is  admitted,  we 

believe  universally,  that  as  a  poet  of  Nature  Mr.  Bryant  stands  without  a  rival. 
No  one  has  celebrated  her  as  he  has  in  all  her  changeful  aspects  of  beauty  and  gran 
deur He  does  not  only  depict  her  colors  and  shapes,  giving  us  the  landscape: 

he  hears  her  mysterious  voices,  and  he  imparts  to  us  some  faint  echo  of  those  supernal 

melodies In  these  ["Sella"  and  "The  Little  People  of  the  Snow"],  with  a 

delicacy  of  fancy  which  is  like  the  tracery  of  frost-crystal,  and  with  a  fineness  of 
feeling  that  Tennyson  has  never  surpassed,  he  leads  us  into  wholly  new  realms  of 
faery." — The  Independent  (as  reprinted  in  Littell's  Living  Age,  February  13,  1864). 

"  Bryant,  pulsing  the  first  interior  verse-throbs  of  a  mighty  world — bard  of  the 
river  and  the  wood,  ever  conveying  a  taste  of  open  air,  with  scents  as  from  hayfields, 
grapes,  birch-borders — always  lurkingly  fond  of  threnodies — beginning  and  ending 
his  long  career  with  chants  of  death,  with  here  and  there,  through  all,  poems  or 
passages  of  poems  touching  the  highest  universal  truths,  enthusiasms,  duties 
— morals  as  grim  and  eternal,  if  not  as  stormy  and  fateful,  as  anything  in  Eschylus." 
— Walt  Whitman,  Specimen  Days,  April  16,  1881. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"  An  immortal  instinct,  deep  within  the  spirit  of  man,  is  thus,  plainly,  a  sense 
of  the  Beautiful.  This  it  is  which  administers  to  his  delight  in  the  manifold  forms 
and  sounds  and  odours  and  sentiments  amid  which  he  exists.  And  just  as  the  lily 
is  repeated  in  the  lake,  or  the  eyes  of  Amaryllis  in  the  mirror,  so  is  the  mere  oral  or 
written  repetition  of  these  forms  and  sounds  and  colours  and  odours  and  sentin  enti 


566  AMERICAN  POEMS 


a  duplicate  source  of  delight.  But  this  mere  repetition  is  not  poetry.  He  who  shall 
simply  sing,  with  however  glowing  enthusiasm,  or  with  however  vivid  a  truth  of 
description,  of  the  sights  and  sounds  and  odours  and  colours  and  sentiments  which 
greet  him  in  common  with  all  mankind — he,  I  say,  has  yet  failed  to  prove  his  divine 
title.  There  is  still  a  something  in  the  distance  which  he  has  been  unable  to  attain. 
We  have  still  a  thirst  unquenchable,  to  allay  which  he  has  not  shown  us  the  crystal 
springs.  This  thirst  belongs  to  the  immortality  of  Man.  It  is  at  once  a  conse 
quence  and  an  indication  of  his  perennial  existence.  It  is  the  desire  of  the  moth  for 
the  star.  It  is  no  mere  appreciation  of  the  Beauty  before  us — but  a  wild  effort  to 
reach  the  Beauty  above.  Inspired  by  an  ecstatic  prescience  of  the  glories  beyond 
the  grave,  we  struggle,  by  multiform  combinations  among  the  things  and  thoughts 
of  Time,  to  attain  a  portion  of  that  Loveliness  whose  very  elements,  perhaps, 
appertain  to  eternity  alone.  And  thus  when  by  Poetry — or  when  by  Music,  the 
most  entrancing  of  the  poetic  moods — we  find  ourselves  melted  into  tears,  we  weep 
then,  not — as  the  Abbate  Gravina  supposes — through  excess  of  pleasure,  but  through 
a  certain  petulant,  impatient  sorrow  at  our  inability  to  grasp  now,  wholly,  here 
on  earth,  at  once  and  for  ever,  those  divine  and  rapturous  joys  of  which,  through 
the  poem  or  through  the  music,  we  attain  to  but  brief  and  indeterminate  glimpses. 
....  To  recapitulate,  then:  I  would  define,  in  brief,  the  Poetry  of  words  as  The 
Rhythmical  Creation  of  Beauty.  Its  sole  arbiter  is  Taste.  With  the  Intellect  or  with 
the  Conscience  it  has  only  collateral  relations.  Unless  incidentally,  it  has  no  concern 
whatever  either  with  Duty  or  with  Truth."— Poe,  "The  Poetic  Principle,"  1850. 

"A  poem,  in  my  opinion,  is  opposed  to  a  work  of  science  by  having,  for  its 
immediate  object,  pleasure,  not  truth;  to  romance,  by  having  for  its  object  an 
indefinite  instead  of  a  definite  pleasure,  being  a  poem  only  so  far  as  this  object  is 
attained;  romance  presenting  perceptible  images  with  definite,  poetry  with  indefi 
nite,  sensations,  to  which  end  music  is  an  essential,  since  the  comprehension  of  sweet 
sound  is  our  most  indefinite  conception.  Music,  when  combined  with  a  pleasurable 
idea,  is  poetry;  music  without  the  idea  is  simply  music;  the  idea  without  the  music 

is  prose  from  its  very  definitiveness."— Poe,  "  Letter  to  B ,"  prefixed  to  Poems, 

1831. 

The  text,  with  the  exceptions  noted,  is  from  the  1845  edition. 

(209)  SONNET — TO  SCIENCE.     Cf.  Keats's  Lamia,  II.  229-38.: 

Do  not  all  charms  fly 
At  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy  ? 
There  was  an  awful  rainbow  once  in  heaven: 
We  know  her  woof,  her  texture;  she  is  given 
In  the  dull  catalogue  of  common  things. 
Philosophy  will  clip  an  angel's  wings, 
^Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line, 
Empty  the  haunted  air  and  gnomed  mine, 
Unweave  a  rainbow,  as  it  erewhile  made 
The  tender-person'd  Lamia  melt  into  a  shade. 

H  14.  tamarind  tree:  in  1831,  "shrubbery." 

(209)  SONG  FROM  "AL  AARAAF."  "Al  Aaraaf,"  II.  68-150.  The  singer  is 
the  maiden  Nesace,  invoking  "bright  beings"  of  beauty  and  music.  The  preceding 
lines  give  the  setting  for  the  song: 


NOTES  567 


Young  flowers  were  whispering  in  melody 

To  happy  flowers  that  night — and  tree  to  tree; 

Fountains  were  gushing  music  as  they  fell 

In  many  a  star-lit  grove  or  moon-lit  dell; 

Yet  silence  came  upon  material  things — 

Fair  flowers,  bright  waterfalls,  and  angel  wings, — 

And  sound  alone  that  from  the  spirit  sprang 

Bore  burthen  to  the  charm  the  maiden  sang. 

(211)  73,  74.  "The  wild  bee  will  not  sleep  in  the  shade  if  there  be  moonlight." 
— Poe. 

(211)  To  HELEN.     Addressed  to  Mrs.  Helen  Stannard,  the  mother  ol  one  of 
Poe's  schoolmates,  at  whose  home  he  had  visited.     In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Helen  Whit 
man  (Harrison's  edition  of  Poe,  Vol.  XVII,  p.  294),  the  poet  refers  to  the  poem  thus: 
"The  lines  I  had  written,  in  my  passionate  boyhood,  to  the  first  purely  ideal  love  of 
my  soul — to  the  Helen  Stannard  of  whom  I  told  you."     \  g,  10.  In  1831: 

To  the  beauty  of  fair  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  of  old  Rome 

(212)  ISRAFEL.     "And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute,  and 
who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures." — Koran.     In  regard  to  this  note 
by  Poe,  in  the  1845  version,  Professor  Woodberry  has  pointed  out  that  the  state 
ment  does  not  occur  in  the  Koran  but  in  Sale's  "  Preliminary  Discourse"  (Section  IV) 
to  his  translation  of  the  Koran,  and  that  the  words  "whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute" 
are  not  in  Sale  but  were  inserted  by  Poe.     In  fact,  these  words  were  not  in  the 
quotation  in  the  1831  version  of  the  poem.     In  Sale,  furthermore,  the  exact  expres 
sion  is,  "The  angel  Israfll,  who  has  the  most  melodious  voice  of  all  God's  creatures." 
H  12.  levin  =  lightning.     H  26.  Uouri:   "  But  all  these  glories  will  be  eclipsed  by  the 
resplendent  and  ravishing  girls  of  paradise,  called,  from  their  large  black  eyes, 
Hur  al  oytin." — Sale,  "Preliminary  Discourse"  to  the  Koran,  Section  IV. 

(213)  40-51.  Cf.  Shelley's  "To  a  Skylark"  (1820),  11.  81-90,  101-5: 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know. 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 

^45-51.  In  1831: 

If  I  did  dwell  where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 

He  would  not  sing  one  half  as  well, 


568 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


One  half  as  passionately, 

And  a  stormier  note  than  this  would  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

(213)  THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA.     A  comparison  with  the  first  form,  in  the  volume 
of  1831  (where  the  title  is  "The  Doomed  City"),  will  show  Poe's  skill  in  revision: 

Lo,  Death  hath  rear'd  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city,  all  alone, 

Far  down  within  the  dim  west — 

And  the  good,  and  the  bad,  and  the  worst,  and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 

There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 

Are — not  like  any  thing  of  ours — 

O  no — O  no— ours  never  loom 

To  heaven  with  that  ungodly  glooml 

Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  notl 

Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

A  heaven  that  God  doth  not  contemn 

With  stars  is  like  a  diadem — 

We  liken  our  ladies'  eyes  to  them — 

But  there!  that  everlasting  pall  I 

It  would  be  mockery  to  call 

Such  dreariness  a  heaven  at  all. 

Yet  tho'  no  holy  rays  come  down 

On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town, 

Light  from  the  lurid,  deep  sea 

Streams  up  the  turrets  silently — 

Up  thrones — up  long-forgotten  bowers 

Of  sculptur'd  ivy  and  stone  flowers — 

Up  domes — up  spires — up  kingly  halls — 

Up  fanes — up  Babylon-like  walls — 

Up  many  a  melancholy  shrine 

Whose  entablatures  intertwine 

The  mask,  the  viol,  and  the  vine. 

There  open  temples,  open  graves 

Are  on  a  level  with  the  waves — 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, 

Not  the  gaily-jewell'd  dead 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed: 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass — 

No  swellings  hint  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  a  far-off  happier  sea: 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 

While  from  the  high  towers  of  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air! 

The  wave!  there  is  a  ripple  there! 

As  if  the  towers  had  thrown  aside, 

In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide, 

As  if  the  turret-tops  had  given 

A  vacuum  in  the  filmy  heaven: 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow — 

The  very  hours  are  breathing  low — 


NOTES  569 


And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence, 
And  Death  to  some  more  happy  clime 
Shall  give  his  undivided  time. 

(215)  THE  SLEEPER.     The  text  is  that  of  the  1845  edition,  with  the  corrections 
by  Poe  in  J.  Lorimer  Graham's  copy.     "  Your  appreciation  of  'The  Sleeper'  delights 
me.     In  the  higher  qualities  of  poetry    t  is  better  than  'The  Raven';   but  there  is 
not  one  man  in  a  million  who  could  be  brought  to  agree  with  me  in  this  opinion. 
'The  Raven,'  of  course,  is  far  the  better  as  a  work  of  art;   but  in  the  true  basis  of  all 
art  'The  Sleeper'  is  the  superior.     I  wrote  the  latter  when  quite  a  boy." — Poe  in  an 
undated  letter  (Harrison's  edition  of  Poe,  Vol.  XVII,  p.  207). 

(216)  To  ONE  IN  PARADISE     The  text  is  that  of  the  1845  edition,  with  the 
Graham  corrections. 

(217)  THE  HAUNTED  PALACE.     First  published  in  Tht  Baltimore  Museum, 
April,  1839;  afterward  incorporated  in  the  tale,  "The  Fall  of  the  House  ol  Usher." 
"By  'The  Haunted  Palace'  I  mean  to  imply  a  mind  haunted  by  phantoms — a 
disordered  brain." — Poe,  in  a  letter  to  Griswold,  March  29,  1841.     ^  22.  Porphyro- 
gm«  =  "born  in  the  purple"  (Greek  iropQvpa.,  "purple";   yevrrjTbs,  "born"),  i.e., 
of  royal  birth,  purple  being  formerly  the  distinguishing  color  of  royal  robes:   here  it 
refers  to  the  kingliness  of  the  human  mind. 

(218)  THE  CONQUEROR  WORM.     The  text  is  that  of  the  1845  edition,  with  the 
Graham    corrections.     First    published    in    Graham's    Magazine,    January,    1843; 
afterward  incorporated  in  the  tale,  "Ligeia."     If  9.  M imes  =  actors. 

(219)  25.  mimic  rout  =  throng  of  actors. 

(219)  THE  RAVEN.  The  text  is  that  of  The  Richmond  Examiner,  September 
25,  1849,  which  received  Poe's  last  revision.  First  published  in  The  Evening  Mirror 
January  29,  1845. 

See  Poe's  "Philosophy  of  Composition"  for  his  own  account  oi  the  mode  oi 
composing  the  poem  The  following  extracts  give  most  of  the  main  points. 

"The  length,  the  province,  and  the  tone  being  thus  determined,  I  betook  mysell 
to  ordinary  induction,  with  the  view  of  obtaining  some  artistic  piquancy  which  might 
serve  me  as  a  key-note  in  the  construction  of  the  poem — some  pivot  upon  which  the 
whole  structure  might  turn.  In  carefully  thinking  over  all  the  usual  artistic  effects 
....  I  did  not  fail  to  perceive  immediately  that  no  one  had  been  so  universally 

employed  as  that  of  the  refrain 1  resolved  to  diversify,  and  so  heighten, 

the  effect  by  adhering  in  general  to  the  monotone  of  sound  while  I  continually  varied 
that  of  the  thought:  that  is  to  say,  I  determined  to  produce  continuously  novel 
effects  by  the  variation  of  the  application  of  the  refrain,  the  refrain  itself  remaining 
for  the  most  part  unvaried. 

"These  points  being  settled,  I  next  bethought  me  of  the  nature  of  my  refrain. 
Since  its  application  was  to  be  repeatedly  varied,  it  was  clear  that  the  refrain  itself 
must  be  brief,  for  there  would  have  been  an  insurmountable  difficulty  in  frequent 

variations  of  application  in  any  sentence  of  length This  led  me  at  once  to  a 

single  word  as  the  best  refrain.  The  question  now  arose  as  to  the  character  of  the 


570  AMERICAN  POEMS 


word.  Having  made  up  my  mind  to  a  refrain,  the  division  of  the  poem  into  stanzas 
was,  of  course,  a  corollary,  the  refrain  forming  the  close  of  each  stanza.  That  such 
a  close,  to  have  force,  must  be  sonorous  and  susceptible  of  protracted  emphasis 
admitted  no  doubt;  and  these  considerations  inevitably  led  me  to  the  long  o  as  the 
most  sonorous  vowel,  in  connection  with  r  as  the  most  producible  consonant.  The 
sound  of  the  refrain  being  thus  determined,  it  became  necessary  to  select  a  word 
embodying  this  sound  and  at  the  same  time  in  the  fullest  possible  keeping  with  that 
melancholy  which  I  had  predetermined  as  the  tone  of  the  poem.  In  such  a  search 
it  would  have  been  absolutely  impossible  to  overlook  the  word  'nevermore. '  In  fact 
it  was  the  very  first  which  presented  itself. 

"The  next  desideratum  was  a  pretext  for  the  continuous  use  of  the  one  word 
'nevermore.'  ....  Here,  then,  immediately  arose  the  idea  of  a  non-reasoning 
creature  capable  of  speech;  and,  very  naturally,  a  parrot  in  the  first  instance  sug 
gested  itself,  but  was  superseded  forthwith  by  a  raven,  as  equally  capable  of  speech 
and  infinitely  more  in  keeping  with  the  intended  tone. 

"I  had  now  gone  so  far  as  the  conception  of  a  raven — the  bird  of  ill  omen — 
monotonously  repeating  the  one  word  'nevermore'  at  the  conclusion  of  each  stanza, 
in  a  poem  of  melancholy  tone  and  in  length  about  one  hundred  lines.  Now,  never 
losing  sight  of  the  object  supremeness,  or  perfection,  at  all  points,  I  asked  myself, 
'Of  all  melancholy  topics  what,  according  to  the  universal  understanding  of  mankind, 
is  the  most  melancholy?'  'Death'  was  the  obvious  reply.  'And  when,'  I  said,  'is 
this  most  melancholy  of  topics  most  poetical  ?'  From  what  I  have  already  explained 
at  some  length,  the  answer  here  also  is  obvious:  'When  it  most  closely  allies  itself 
to  Beauty:  the  death,  then,  of  a  beautiful  woman  is,  unquestionably,  the  most 
poetical  topic  in  the  world;  and  equally  is  it  beyond  doubt  that  the  lips  best  suited 
for  such  topic  are  those  of  a  bereaved  lover 

"The  next  point  to  be  considered  was  the  mode  of  bringing  together  the  lover 
and  the  raven;  and  the  first  branch  of  this  consideration  was  the  locale.  For  this 
the  most  natural  suggestion  might  seem  to  be  a  forest  or  the  fields;  but  it  has 
always  appeared  to  me  that  a  close  circumscription  of  space  is  absolutely  necessary 

to  the  effect  of  insulated  incident — it  has  the  force  of  a  frame  to  a  picture 

I  determined,  then,  to  place  the  lover  in  his  chamber — in  a  chamber  rendered  sacred 
to  him  by  memories  of  her  who  had  frequented  it.  The  room  is  represented  as 
richly  furnished — this  in  mere  pursuance  of  the  ideas  I  have  already  explained  on 
the  subject  of  Beauty  as  the  sole  poetical  thesis. 

"The  locale  being  thus  determined,  I  had  now  to  introduce  the  bird;  and  the 
thought  of  introducing  him  through  the  window  was  inevitable.  The  idea  of  making 
the  lover  suppose,  in  the  first  instance,  that  the  flapping  of  the  wings  of  the  bird 
against  the  shutter  is  a  '  tapping '  at  the  door  originated  in  a  wish  to  increase,  by  pro 
longing,  the  reader's  curiosity,  and  in  a  desire  to  admit  the  incidental  effect  arising 
from  the  lover's  throwing  open  the  door,  finding  all  dark,  and  thence  adopting  the 
half-fancy  that  it  was  the  spirit  of  his  mistress  that  knocked.  I  made  the  night 
tempestuous,  first,  to  account  for  the  raven's  seeking  admission,  and,  secondly,  for 
the  effect  of  contrast  with  the  (physical)  serenity  within  the  chamber.  I  made  the 
bird  alight  on  the  bust  of  Pallas  also  for  the  effect  of  contrast  between  the  marble 


NOTES  571 


and  the  plumage — it  being  understood  that  the  bust  was  absolutely  suggested  by 
the  bird — the  bust  of  Pallas  being  chosen,  first,  as  most  in  keeping  with  the  scholar 
ship  of  the  lover,  and,  secondly,  for  the  sonorousness  of  the  word 'Pallas' itself 

"It  will  be  observed  that  the  words,  'from  out  my  heart'  [1.  101],  involve  the 
first  metaphorical  expression  in  the  poem.  They,  with  the  answer  'Nevermore,' 
dispose  the  mind  to  seek  a  moral  in  all  that  has  been  previously  narrated.  The 
reader  begins  now  to  regard  the  raven  as  emblematical;  but  it  is  not  until  the  very 
last  line  of  the  very  last  stanza  that  the  intention  of  making  him  emblematical  of 
Mournful  and  Never-ending  Remembrance  is  permitted  distinctly  to  be  seen." 

"The  late  Buchanan  Read  informed  Robert  Browning  that  Poe  described  to 
him  (i.e.,  Read)  the  whole  process  of  the  construction  of  his  poem,  and  declared 
that  the  suggestion  of  it  lay  wholly  in  a  line  from  'Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,' 
'With  a  murmurous  stir  uncertain,  in  the  air  the  purple  curtain.'" — J.  H.  Ingram's 
life  of  Poe,  Vol.  I,  p.  276.  Cf.  "The  Raven,"  1.  13.  For  other  reports  of  the  mode 
of  composition  see  Stedman  and  Woodberry's  edition  of  Poe,  Vol.  X,  and  Wood- 
berry's  life  of  Poe,  Vol.  II,  p.  in. 

"'The  Raven'  has  had  a  great  'run,'  Thomas;  but  I  wrote  it  for  the  express 
purpose  of  running — just  as  I  did  the  'Gold-Bug,'  you  know.  The  bird  beat  the 
bug,  though,  all  hollow." — Poe,  in  a  letter  to  F.  W.  Thomas,  May  4,  1845. 

The  eccentric  poet,  Thomas  H.  Chivers,  wrote  to  Griswold,  March  28,  1851: 
"He  [Poe]  no  doubt  felt  piqued  when  I  accused  him  of  having  stolen  his  'Raven' 
from  my  poem,  'To  Allegra  Florence  in  Heaven' — which  you  know  he  did,  if  you 
know  anything  at  all  about  it.  The  same  is  true  of  his  lectures  on  Poetry — besides 
many  other  things."  A  few  stanzas  from  Chivers's  poem  will  afford  a  fair  basis  for  a 
judgment  as  to  the  justice  of  his  claim: 

Holy  angels  now  are  bending 
To  receive  thy  soul  ascending 
Up  to  Heaven  to  joys  unending, 

And  to  bliss  which  is  divine; 
While  thy  pale,  cold  form  is  fading 
Under  death's  dark  wings  now  shading 
Thee  with  gloom  which  is  pervading 
.  This  poor,  broken  heart  of  mine.  .  .  . 

With  my  bowed  head  thus  reclining 
On  my  hand,  my  heart  repining, 
Shall  my  salt  tears,  ever  shining 

On  my  pale  cheeks,  flow  for  thee — 
Bitter  soul-drops  ever  stealing 
From  the  holy  fount  of  feeling, 
Deepest  anguish  now  revealing, 

For  thy  loss,  dear  child,  to  me. 

As  an  egg,  when  broken,  never 
Can  be  mended,  but  must  ever 
Be  the  same  crushed  egg  forever, 

So  shall  this  dark  heart  of  mine; 
Which,  though  broken,  is  still  breaking, 
And  shall  never  more  cease  aching 
For  the  sleep  which  has  no  waking— 

For  the  sleep  which  now  is  thine 


57 2  AMERICAN  POEMS 


(220)  36-54.  "About  the  middle  of  the  poem,  also,  I  have  availed  myself  of 
the  force  of  contrast,  with  a  view  of  deepening  the  ultimate  impression.  For 
example,  an  air  of  the  fantastic — approaching  as  nearly  to  the  ludicrous  as  was 

admissible — is  given  to  the  raven's  entrance In  the  two  stanzas  which 

follow,  the  design  is  more  obviously  carried  out The  effect  of  the  d&noue- 

ment  being  thus  provided  for,  I  immediately  drop  the  fantastic  for  a  tone  of  the 
most  profound  seriousness." — Poe,  "The  Philosophy  of  Composition." 

(222)  80.  "Your  objection  to  the  tinkling  of  the  footfalls  is  far  more  pointed, 
and  in  the  course  of  composition  occurred  so  forcibly  to  myself  that  I  hesitated  to 
use  the  term.     I  finally  used  it  because  I  saw  that  it  had,  in  its  first  conception,  been 
suggested  to  my  mind  by  the  sense  of  the  supernatural  with  which  it  was,  at  the 
moment,  filled.     No  human  or  physical  foot  could  tinkle  on  a  soft  carpet,  therefore 
the  tinkling  of  feet  would  vividly  convey  the  supernatural  impression.     This  was 
the  idea,  and  it  is  good  within  itself;  but  if  it  fails  (as  I  fear  it  does)  to  make  itself 
immediately  and  generally  felt,  according  to  my  intention,  then  in  so  much  is  it 
badly  conveyed,  or  expressed." — Poe,  in  an  undated  letter  (Harrison's  edition  of 
Poe,  Vol.  XVII,  p.  207).     If  82.  nepenthe:    a  soothing  draught  (Greek  n;,  "not"; 
irtvdos,  "sorrow").      ^  91-96.  "I  composed  this  stanza,  at  this  point,  first  that, 
by  establishing  the  climax,  I  might  the  better  vary  and  graduate,  as  regards  serious 
ness  and  importance,  the  preceding  queries  of  the  lover;  and,  secondly,  that  I  might 
definitely  settle  the  rhythm,  the  metre,  and  the  length  and  general  arrangement 
of  the  stanza — as  well  as  graduate  the  stanzas  which  were  to  precede,  so  that  none 
of  them  might  surpass  this  in  rhythmical  effect.     Had  I  been  able,  in  the  subsequent 
composition,  to  construct  more  vigorous  stanzas,  I  should,  without  scruple,  have 
purposely  enfeebled  them,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  climacteric  effect." — Poe, 
"The  Philosophy  of  Composition."     ^  93.  Aidenn:   a  modified  form  of  the  Arabic 
"  Adn,"  Eden.     If  106.  "It  is  true  that  in  several  ways,  as  you  say,  the  lamp  might 
have  thrown  the  bird's  shadow  on  the  floor.     My  conception  was  that  of  the  bracket 
candelabrum  affixed  against  the  wall,  high  up  above  the  door  and  bust,  as  is  often 
seen  in  the  English  palaces  and  even  in  some  of  the  better  houses  of  New  York." — 
Poe,  in  an  undated  letter  (Harrison's  edition  of  Poe,  Vol.  XVII,  p.  206). 

(223)  ULALUME.     The  text  is  that  of  Griswold's  edition,  in  1850.     First  pub 
lished  in  The  American  Whig  Review,  December,  1847.     Poe's  wife  had  died  on 
January  30  of  the  same  year.    If  37.  Astarte's:  Astarte  was  the  Canaanitish  goddess 
of  love  and  of  the  moon. 

(224)  44.  Lion:  one  of  the  constellations  of  the  Zodiac. 

(225)  THE  BELLS.    The  text  is  that  of  Sartain's  Union  Magazine,  November, 
1849.     First  published  in  The  Home  Journal,  April  28,  1849. 

(228)  ANNABEL  LEE.  The  text  is  that  of  The  New  York  Tribune,  in  which  the 
poem  was  first  published,  on  October  9,  1849.  The  poem  seems  to  refer  to  the  poet's 
wife;  according  to  his  own  statement,  it  was  written  in  1849,  some  two  years  after 
her  death  (see  his  letter  to  "Annie"  in  Vol.  XVII,  p.  346,  of  Harrison's  edition  of 
Poe;  the  letter  is  undated,  but  its  contents  show  that  it  was  written  early  in  1849) 
On  the  other  hand,  Professor  Harrison  says  (Vol.  VII,  p.  219)  that  Mrs.  S.  A.  Weiss 
informed  him  that  Poe  had  told  her  that  the  poem  "was  composed  years  before  his 
wife's  death  and  had  no  reference  to  her." 


NOTES  .  573 


(229)  ELDORADO.  The  text  is  that  of  The  Flag  of  Our  Union,  in  which  the 
poem  was  first  published,  on  April  21,  1849. 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"In  our  opinion  it  ["The  Raven")  is  the  most  effective  single  example  of 
'fugitive  poetry'  ever  published  in  this  country,  and  unsurpassed  in  English  poetry 
for  subtle  conception,  masterly  ingenuity  of  versification,  and  consistent  sustaining 

of  imaginative  lift It  is  one  of  those  'dainties  bred  in  a  book'  which  we  feed 

on.  It  will  stick  to  the  memory  of  everybody  who  reads  it." — N.  P.  Willis,  in  The 
Evening  Mirror,  January  29,  1845. 

"We  call  them  [Poe's  early  poems]  the  most  remarkable  boyish  poems  that  we 
have  ever  read.  We  know  of  none  that  can  compare  with  them  for  maturity  of  pur 
pose  and  a  nice  understanding  of  the  effects  of  language  and  metre We  copy 

one  of  the  shorter  poems  ["To  Helen"],  written  when  the  author  was  only  fourteen 
There  is  a  little  dimness  in  the  filling  up,  but  the  grace  and  symmetry  of  the  outline 

are  such  as  few  poets  ever  attain.     There  is  a  smack  of  ambrosia  about  it 

When  we  say  that  Mr.  Poe  has  genius,  we  do  not  mean  to  say  that  he  has  produced 
evidence  of  the  highest.  But  to  say  that  he  possesses  it  at  all  is  to  say  that  he 
needs  only  zeal,  industry,  and  a  reverence  for  the  trust  reposed  in  him,  to  achieve 

the  proudest  triumphs  and  the  greenest  laurels Mr.  Poe  has  two  of  the  prime 

qualities  of  genius — a  faculty  of  vigorous  yet  minute  analysis,  and  a  wonderful 
fecundity  of  imagination."— James  Russell  Lowell,  in  Graham's  Magazine,  February. 
1845. 

"Your  'Raven'  has  produced  a  sensation,  a  'fit  horror,'  here  in  England. 
Some  of  my  friends  are  taken  by  the  fear  of  it  and  some  by  the  music.  I  hear  of 
persons  haunted  by  the  'Nevermore,'  and  one  acquaintance  of  mine  who  has  the 
misfortune  of  possessing  a  'bust  of  Pallas'  can  never  bear  to  look  at  it  in  the  twi 
light.  I  think  you  will  like  to  be  told  our  great  poet,  Mr.  Browning was 

struck  much  by  the  rhythm  of  that  poem."— Elizabeth  B.  Barrett,  in  a  letter  to 
Poe,  April,  1846. 

"'The  Raven'  is  a  singularly  beautiful  poem.  Many  readers  who  prefer  sun 
shine  to  the  weird  lights  with  which  Mr.  Poe  fills  his  sky  may  be  dull  to  its  beauty, 

but  it  is  none  the  less  a  great  triumph  of  imagination  and  art The  rhythm 

of  this  poem  is  exquisite,  its  phraseology  is  in  the  highest  degree  musical  and  apt, 
the  tone  of  the  whole  is  wonderfully  sustained  and  appropriate  to  the  subject,  which 
full  as  it  is  of  a  wild  and  tender  melancholy,  is  admirably  well  chosen." — Philip 
Pendleton  Cooke,  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  January,  1848. 

"Unquestionably  he  was  a  man  of  great  genius.  Among  the  litterateurs  of 
his  day  he  stands  out  distinctively  as  an  original  writer  and  thinker.  In  nothing  did 

he  conform  to  established  custom And  yet  in  his  most  eccentric  vagaries 

he  was  always  correct.  The  fastidious  reader  may  look  in  vain,  even  among  his 
earlier  poems — where  'wild  words  wander  here  and  there' — for  an  offense  against 

rhetorical  propriety The  poems  of  Mr.  Poe  are  remarkable,  above  all  other 

characteristics,  for  the  exceeding  melody  of  the  versification.  'Ulalume'  might 
be  cited  as  a  happy  instance  of  this  quality,  but  we  prefer  to  quote  'The  Bells' 
from  the  last  number  of  the  Union  Magazine.  It  was  the  design  of  the  author,  as 


574  .  AMERICAN  POEMS 


he  himself  told  us,  to  express  in  language  the  exact  sound  of  bells  to  the  ear.  He  has 
succeeded,  we  think,  far  better  than  Southey,  who  attempted  a  similar  feat,  to  tell 
us  'how  the  waters  come  down  at  Lodore.'" — John  R.  Thompson,  in  The  Southern 
Literary  Messenger,  November,  1849. 

"What  a  melancholy  death  is  that  of  Mr.  Poe — a  man  so  richly  endowed  with 
genius.  I  never  knew  him  personally,  but  have  always  entertained  a  high  apprecia 
tion  of  his  powers  as  a  prose-writer  and  a  poet.  His  prose  is  remarkably  vigorous, 
direct  and  yet  affluent;  and  his  verse  has  a  particular  charm  of  melody,  an  atmos 
phere  of  true  poetry  about  it,  which  is  very  winning.  The  harshness  of  his  criti 
cisms  I  have  never  attributed  to  anything  but  the  irritation  of  a  sensitive  nature, 
chafed  by  some  indefinite  sense  of  wrong."— Longfellow,  in  a  letter,  October,  1849, 
quoted  by  Thompson  in  the  above  article. 

"  Edgar  Poe  has  not  yet  reached  his  proper  seat  in  the  temple  of  fame— nor 
will  for  many  a  long  year.  These  writings  are  too  new  and  too  great  to  be  taken  at 

once  into  the  popular  mind As  a  poet,  we  must  contemplate  m  this  author 

an  unfinished  column.  He  wanted  money  too  often  and  too  much  to  develope  his 
wonderful  imagination  in  verse.  There  is  but  one  poem  in  which  he  succeeded  in 
uttering  himself;  but  on  its  dusky  wings  he  will  sail  securely  over  the  gulf  of  oblivion 

to  the  eternal  shore  beyond With  the  learned  in  imaginative  literature  '  The 

Raven'  has  taken  rank  over  the  whole  world  as  the  very  first  poem  manufactured 
upon  the  American  continent.  In  their  eyes  but  one  other  work  of  the  western 
world  can  be  placed  near  it— that  is  'The  Humble  Bee'  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 
....  'The  Raven'  is  familiar  to  every  one  as  the  most  wonderful  and  beautiful 
example  which  the  world  affords  of  the  complicated  power  of  words  and  of  the  more 
solemn  and  elevated  music  of  verse.  A  very  remarkable  quality  in  these  poems  is 
one  which  can  scarcely  be  defined  better  than  as  the  'epicureanism'  of  language. 
It  is  a  delicate  and  most  extraordinary  style,  which  is  the  peculiar  property  of  our 
author.  '  Ulalume '  and  '  Annabel  Lee'  ....  are  good  illustrations  of  this  quality." 
— The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  March,  1850. 

"Though  to  allow  any  literary  excellence  to  our  American  brethren  is  considered 
a  tolerably  good  proof  of  a  low  standard  of  taste,  we  yet  venture  to  say  that  a 
half-dozen  such  poems  as  'The  Raven'  would  have  placed  Edgar  Poe  in  the  fore 
most  ranks  of  modern  poetry." — Tail's  Magazine,  April,  1852. 

"  It  is  obvious  that  the  specimens  of  American  poetry  with  which  we  are  now 
more  or  less  familiar  evince  a  far  higher  order  of  genius  and  more  remarkable  char 
acteristics  of  originality  than  anything  of  the  kind  which  the  poets  of  the  New 

World  formerly  produced And  although  a  great  poem,  in  the  true  sense  of 

the  term,  has  not  yet  reached  us  from  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  not  a  few  remark 
able  ones  may  now  be  pointed  to  in  the  works  of  such  men  as  Longfellow,  Bryant, 
Lowell,  Whittier,  and  Poe.  While  the  first  two  of  these  are  now  nearly  as  familiar 
to  the  lovers  of  poetry  among  us  as  they  are  in  their  own  country,  the  others, 
equally  worthy  of  notice,  are  by  no  means  so  well  known  as  they  deserve  to  be.  Poe, 
as  a  writer  of  more  than  ordinary  power,  and  as  one  who  has  evinced  far  more 

originality  than  any  of  his  contemporaries,  is  especially  worthy  of  attention 

It  ("The  Raven"]  is  certainly  unique  in  American  literature,  as  much  ao  as  the 
'  Christabel'  and  '  Ancient  Mariner '  of  Coleridge  are  in  our  own;  and  unquestionably 


NOTES  575 


a  poetical  reputation  has  been  earned  by  things  that  will  not  bear  comparison  with 
it  for  a  moment,  even  in  point  of  artistic  construction  merely,  for  there  is  a  wonder 
ful  harmony  between  the  feeling  and  the  rhythmical  expression." — Chambers'* 
Journal,  February  26,  1853. 

"In  some  half-dozen  of  his  minor  poems  Mr.  Poe  has  fully  displayed  his  poetic 
capacity,  in  the  opulence  of  imagination,  the  power  of  production  and  skilful 
combination,  and  especially  in  that  delicate  perception  of  the  true  harmonies  of 
thought  and  expression  which  is  the  soul  of  physical  aesthetics.  Yet  is  there  some 
thing  wanting  to  his  poetry  which  we  cannot  express  by  any  better  phrase  than  the 
lack  of  spontaneity.  It  does  not  bear  so  much  the  impress  of  soul-utterings  (we 
except  only  'Annabel  Lee')  as  of  word-manoeuvring.  His  poems  do  not  grow  up  in 
his  mind;  but  the  theme  is  carefully  and  mathematically  adjusted,  and  the  words, 
being  marshalled  out  in  order  to  a  thorough  inspection,  are  then  successively 
dragooned  into  the  especial  service  required.  When  completed,  his  work  appears  a 
rich  and  elaborately  finished  piece  of  art,  but  it  lacks  the  vis  vitae  which  alone  can 
make  of  words  living  things.  Hence  in  but  few  of  his  efforts  has  he  succeeded  in 
enlisting  the  sympathy  of  his  readers.  They  become  admirers  only,  not  lovers." — 
The  North  American  Review,  October,  1856. 

"The  poetical  works  of  the  author  need  not  detain  us  long.  With  one  remark 
able  exception  his  verses  do  not  differ  materially  from  others  of  the  same  time. 
They  are  neither  very  good  nor  very  bad.  They  do  not  exhibit  much  depth  or 
graphic  power,  and  but  little  tenderness;  nor  do  they,  in  fact,  possess  any  of  those 
distinguishing  qualities  which  lift  a  man  up  beyond  his  contemporaries.  The 
blank  verse  is  not  good,  but  some  of  the  smaller  pieces  have  a  smoothness  and  liquid 
flow  that  are  pleasant  enough.  One  short  poem,  said  to  have  been  written  at  the 
age  of  fourteen,  and  addressed  'To  Helen,'  is  full  of  promise.  Of  all  Mr.  Poe's 
poems,  however,  'The  Raven'  is  by  far  the  first.  It  is,  like  the  larger  part  of  the 
author's  writings,  of  a  gloomy  cast;  but  its  merit  is  great,  and  it  ranks  in  that  rare 
and  remarkable  class  of  productions  which  suffice  singly  to  make  a  reputation.  .  . 
In  the  United  States  its  popularity  is  universal,  but  we  believe  it  still  to  be  far  less 
known  in  this  country  than  it  ought  to  be.  We  therefore  transcribe  the  greater 
portion  of  it."— The  Edinburgh  Review,  April,  1858. 

"The  copies  of  verses  are  many  in  number,  and  most  of  them  are  chiefly  remark 
able  for  their  art  rather  than  for  their  power  of  awakening  either  pleasing  or  pro 
found  emotion.  It  is  one  poem  alone  which  makes  an  edition  of  these  works 
emphatically  called  for.  That  poem,  it  is  nearly  superfluous  to  mention,  is  'The 
Raven,'  and  truly  it  is  unforgettable.  In  this  weird  and  wonderful  creation  art 

holds  equal  dominion  with  feeling The  croak  of  the  raven  is  taken  up  and 

moulded  into  rhyme  by  a  nimble  if  not  a  mocking  spirit;  and  fascinating  as  is  the 
rhythmic  movement  of  the  verse,  it  appears  like  the  dancing  of  the  daughter  of 
Herodias.  This  looks  incongruous;  and  so  do  the  words  of  the  fool  which  Shak- 
speare  has  intermingled  with  the  agonies  and  imprecations  of  Lear.  In  the  tragedy 
this  is  held  to  be  a  consummate  stroke  of  art,  and  certainly  the  reader  is  grateful  for 
the  relief.  Had  Poe  a  similar  design?  ....  We  can  call  to  mind  no  one  who  has 
ever  played  with  an  inexplicable  horror  more  daintily  or  more  impressively  '' 
—  The  Atlantic  Monthly.  October,  1850. 


576  AMERICAN  POEMS 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

The  text  is  from  the  1867  edition. 

(230)  THE   BURIAL  OF  THE    MINNISINK.      First   published  in   The  Atlantic 
Souvenir. 

(231)  A  PSALM  OF  LIFE.     First  published  in  The  Knickerbocker  Magazine, 
October,  1838.     Longfellow  said  that  he  wrote  the  poem  when  he  was  recovering 
from  a  fit  of  depression;    the  "psalmist"  of  the  sub-title  is  the  poet  himself  in 
despondent  mood,  with  which  his  more  cheerful  mood  is  wrestling. 

(232)  7.  See  Gen.  3:19:    "Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  shalt  thou  return." 
H  13.    Cf.    Aphorisms    of    Hippocrates:    6    plos    Ppax"*,     y    ^    T<?x"i?     A«*Kpi?, 
"Life  short,  and  art  long";  and  Goethe's  Faust,  Part  I,  11.  458,  559- 

Ach  Gott!  die  Kunst  ist  lang, 
Und  kurz  ist  unser  Leben, 

"Ah  God,  art  is  long,  and  short  is  our  life." 

(233)  HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT.     The  Greek  motto  is  translated  in  1.  23,  "The  wel 
come,  the  thrice-prayed  for."     Longfellow  said  that  he  wrote  the  poem  when  sitting 
at  his  chamber  window  on  a  balmy  summer  night.     H  21.  Orestes-like:    Orestes, 
the  Greek  legendary  character,  was  pursued  by  the  Furies  for  having  killed  his 
mother,  Clytemnestra,  who  had  murdered  his  father,  Agamemnon. 

(233)  THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS.     The  poem  was  suggested  by  the  wreck 
of  the  schooner  "Hesperus,"  in  December,  1839,  on  a  reef  called  Norman's  Woe,  off 
Gloucester  harbor,  on  the  coast  of  Massachusetts;  Longfellow's  journal,  under  date 
of  December  17,  makes  note  of  this  wreck  amid  others,  and  records  a  purpose  to 
write  a  ballad  upon  it,  which  he  did  a  few  days  later,  composing  the  whole  rapidly 
and  easily  between  midnight  and  three  o'clock. 

(234)  15-18.  Cf.  "Sir  Patrick  Spens,"  11.  23-28: 

0  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir, 

For  I  feir  a  deadlie  storme, 
Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moone, 

Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme, 
And  I  feir,  I  feir,  my  deir  master, 

That  we  will  cum  to  harme. 

(236)  THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH.     The  poem  was  suggested  by  the  blacksmith- 
shop  under  a  horse-chestnut  tree  near  Longfellow's  house.     The  tree  was  cut  down 
in  1876;   and  three  years  later,  on  the  poet's  seventy-second  birthday,  a  chair  made 
from  the  wood  of  it  was  given  to  the  poet  by  the  children  of  Cambridge  (See  "From 
my  Arm-Chair"). 

(237)  SERENADE      From  The  Spanish  Student,  Act  I,  scene  3. 

(238)  THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM.     The  poem,  like  all  the  others  (except  one)  in 
the  collection  called  "Poems  on  Slavery,"  was  written  on  shipboard,  while  the  poet 
was  confined  to  his  berth  for  fifteen  days  during  a  stormy  voyage  home  in  1842. 

(239)  33.  river-horse:   the  hippopotamus. 

(240)  THE  DAY  Is  DONE.     The  lines  were  written  as  the  proem  to  a  volume  of 
selected  minor  poems,  chosen  and  edited  by  Longfellow 


NOTES  577 


(241)  TUB  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS.  Longfellow  wrote  in  his  journal  on 
November  12,  1845,  that  the  poem  was  suggested  by  the  following  words  about 
eternity  by  Bridaine,  an  old  missionary:  "C'est  une  pendule  dont  le  balancier  dit 
et  redit  sans  cesse  ces  deux,  mots  seulement  dans  le  silence  des  tombeaux,  'Toujours, 
jamaisl  Jamais,  toujours!'"  The  "old-fashioned  country-seat"  is  said  to  have 
been  a  house  in  Pittsfield,  Mass.,  the  home  of  relatives  of  the  poet's  second  wife 
which  he  visited  on  hit  honeymoon  in  1843. 

(243)  EVANGELINE.     Acadia,  or  Nova  Scotia,  the  scene  of  the  first  part  of  the 
poem,  had  been  ceded  to  Great  Britain  in   1713;   but  the   inhabitants  were  still 
mostly  French,  and  their  loyalty  was  justly  suspected.     At  the  outbreak  of  the 
French  and  Indian  War  the  situation  became  critical,  the  Acadians  refusing  to  take 
an  unqualified  oath  of  allegiance,  and  the  British  government  decided  that  it  was 
necessary  to  deport  them  to  British  provinces  farther  south.     In  the  autumn  of 
1755,  some  three  thousand  Acadians  were  carried  away  in  ships  to  Massachusetts 
and  other  colonies;    and,  in  spite  of  orders  to  the  contrary,  many  families  were 
accidentally  separated  and  the  exiles  suffered  other  needless  hardships.     Long 
fellow  heard  the  story  of  Evangeline  and  Gabriel  from  a  Mr.  Conolly,  one  of  Haw 
thorne's  friends,  who  got  it  from  a  French  Canadian.     The  historical  setting  the 
poet  worked  up  from  the  rather  inadequate  accounts  then  available;   the  descrip 
tions  of  the  Southwest  he  based  on  his  reading,  on  a  diorama  of  the  Mississippi 
which  he  saw  in  Boston,  and  probably  on  the  descriptions  of  a  correspondent. 

(244)  Part  the  First.     ^  i.  Basin  of  Minas:    the  eastern  arm  of  the  Bay  of 
Fundy.     ^  4.  Giving  the  village  its  name:   " Grand-Pre" "  =  "great  meadow."     ^  30. 
Angelus:  a  bell  rung  at  morning,  noon,  and  evening,  to  remind  the  hearer  that  the 
time  had  come  to  recite  a  devotion  in  memory  of  the  angel  Gabriel's  visit  to  the 
Virgin  Mary;   so  called  because  the  first  word  of  the  devotion  is  "angelus." 

(246)  103.  plain-song:    a  simple,   dignified  kind  of  music  prescribed  in  the 
services  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 

(247)  125.  "Sunshine  of  St.  Eulalie":   the  day  of  this  saint,  martyred  in  the 
fourth  century,  was  February  12;    the  belief  referred  to  by  Longfellow  is  thus 
expressed  in  Pluquet's  Conies  Populaires: 

Si  le  soleil  rit  le  jour  Sainte-Eulalie, 
II  y  aura  pommes  et  cidre  a  folie; 

"If  the  sun  smiles  on  Saint  Eulalie's  Day,  there  will  be  apples  and  cider  in  abun 
dance"  (literally,  "to  distraction").  H  130.  Scorpion:  the  eighth  sign  of  the  Zodiac, 
which  the  sun  enters  about  October  23. 

(248)  140.  Summer  of  All-Saints:    All-Saints'  Day  is  i  November  i.     U  151. 
the  Persian:    Xerxes;    the  story  is  told  in  Herodotus,  VII.  31:    "Xerxes  .... 
found  here  a  plane-tree  so  beautiful  that  he  presented  it  with  golden  ornament*."  — 
Rawlinson's  translation. 

(250)  230.  Louisburg  ....  Beau  Stjour  ....  Port  Royal:   fortified  places, 
the  scenes  of  battles  between  French  and  English;    at  the  taking  of  Beau  Sejour 
three  years  before,  three  hundred  Acadians  were  found  among  the  French  garrison. 

(251)  244.  Rent  Leblanc:    a  historical  character,  who  was  really  iniDrisoned 


578  AMERICAN  POEMS 


as  described  below.     H  261.  Loup-garou:  a  werewolf,  a  man  turned  into  a  wolf  but 
keeping  human  intelligence. 

(252)  283.  a  story:  the  tale  is  an  old  Italian  one,  the  scene  of  it  Florence. 

(254)  362.  See  Gen.  21:0-21. 

(255)  394.  Longfellow's  journal,  April  29,  1846,  contains  a  mention  of  these 
popular  tunes,  which  he  had  come  upon  in  an  old  French  song-book.     ^  411.  their 
commander:    he  was  Lieut.-Col.  John  Winslow,  of  an  old  Massachusetts  family. 
^  412-22.     Cf.  the  officer's  speech  as  given  by  Thomas  C.  Haliburton,  Longfellow's 
thief  authority  in  this  part  of  the  poem:    "I  have  received  from  his  Excellency, 
Governor  Lawrence,  the  King's  Commission,  which  I  have  in  my  hand;  and  by  his 
orders  you  are  convened  together  to  manifest  to  you  his  Majesty's  final  resolution 
to  the  French  inhabitants  of  this,  his  Province  of  Nova-Scotia;  who  for  almost  half 
a  century  have  had  more  indulgence  granted  them  than  any  of  his  subjects  in  any 
part  of  his  dominions;    what  use  you  have  made  of  it  you  yourselves  best  know. 
The  part  of  duty  I  am  now  upon,  though  necessary,  is  very  disagreeable  to  my 
natural  make  and  temper,  as  I  know  it  must  be  grievous  to  you,  who  are  of  the 
same  species;  but  it  is  not  my  business  to  animadvert,  but  to  obey  such  orders  as 
I  receive,  and  therefore,  without  hesitation,  shall  deliver  you  his  Majesty's  orders 
and  instructions,  namely:   that  your  lands  and  tenements,  cattle  of  all  kinds  and 
live  stock  of  all  sorts,  are  forfeited  to  the  Crown;  with  all  other  your  effects,  saving 
your  money  and  household  goods,  and  you  yourselves  to  be  removed  from  this  his 
Province.     Thus  it  is  peremptorily  his  Majesty's  orders  that  the  whole  French 
inhabitants  of  these  Districts  be  removed;  and  I  am,  through  his  Majesty's  goodness, 
directed  to  allow  you  liberty  to  carry  off  your  money  and  household  goods,  as  many 
as  you  can  without  discommoding  the  vessels  you  go  in.     I  shall  do  everything  in 
my  power  that  all  those  goods  be  secured  to  you,  and  that  you  are  not  molested  in 
carrying  them  off;  also,  that  whole  families  shall  go  in  the  same  vessel,  and  make 
this  remove,  which  I  am  sensible  must  give  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  as  easy  as 
his  Majesty's  service  will  admit;  and  hope  that,  in  whatever  part  of  the  world  you 
may  fall  you  may  be  faithful  subjects,  a  peaceable  and  happy  people.     I  must  also 
inform  you  that  it  is  his  Majesty's  pleasure  that  you  remain  in  security  under 
the  inspection  and  direction  of   the  troops  I  have  the  honour  to  command." — 
An  Historical  and  Statistical  Account  of  Nova-Scotia  (1829),  Vol.  I,  pp.  176,  177. 

(258)  488.  See  Ex.  34:29-33- 

(260)  560.  leaguer  =  ca.mp. 

(261)  578.  See  Acts  27:21-44.     ^  602.  gleeds  =  coa\s. 
(263)  638.  book:   prayer-book. 

(263)  Part  the  Second. 

(264)  40.  Coureurs-des-Bois  =  " rangers  of   the  woods,"   hunters  and  guides. 
H  42.   Voyageur  =  river  boatman.     H  48.  There  was  an  old  saying  in  Normandy 
that  if  a  maid  did  not  marry  she  would  be  left  to  dress  the  hair  of  St.  Catherine, 
the  patron  saint  of  virgins. 

(265)  76.  the  Beautiful  River:   the  Ohio  river,  which  forms  the  entire  southern 
boundary  of  the  state  of  Ohio;  "Ohio,"  an  Indian  word,  means  "Beautiful  River." 
J  85.  Ac>idian  Coast:    the  name  given  to  a  part  of  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi 
between  Baton  Rouge  and  New  Orleans,  because  of  the  large  number  of  Acadian 


NOTES  579 


exiles  who  settled  there.     Opelousas:   a  region  in  southern  Louisiana  where  many 
Acadians  settled. 

(266)  99.  Golden  Coast:  the  name  given  to  a  part  of  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi 
above  Baton  Rouge,  on  account  of  the  tropical  fertility.      U  101.  Bayou  of  Plaque- 
mine:   a  sluggish  inlet  of  the  Mississippi,  some  twenty  miles  below  Baton  Rouge, 
U  117.  mimosa  =  the  Sensitive  Plant. 

(267)  142.  the  Atchafalaya:    an  outlet  of  the  Red  and  Mississippi  rivers;    it 
widens  out  at  one  part  of  its  course  into  several  lakes.     H  156.  the  ladder  of  Jacob: 
see  Gen.  28:12. 

(268)  191.  Teche:  an  inlet  of  the  Atchafalaya. 

(269)  224.  mystic  mistletoe:  the  mistletoe,  a  parasite  of  the  oak  (a  sacred  tree 
among  the  ancient  Celts),  was  supposed  to  have  magical  healing  powers.     U  225. 
Yule-tide:   originally  the  time  of  the  winter  solstice,  now  identified  with  Christmas; 
it  was  observed  as  a  festival  among  many  northern  races,  because  the  nights  of  their 
long  winters  then  began  to  shorten.     Longfellow  seems  to  mistake,  however,  in 
saying  that  the  Druids,  the  priests  of  the  ancient  Celts,  cut  down  the  mistletoe  at 
this  season;  it  was  on  the  sixth  day  of  the  new  moon. 

(271)  287.  Adayes:    a  town  in  what  is  now  northern  Texas.     U  288.  Ozark 
Mountains:  a  range  of  mountains  in  southwestern  Missouri,  northwestern  Arkansas, 
and  the  eastern  part  of  Indian  Territory.     If  305-  ci-devant  =  former;    literally, 
"before  this." 

(272)  341.  Cf.  Part  the  First,  1.  266  (p.  251). 

(273)  368.  a  silent  Carthusian:   monks  of  the  Carthusian  order  took  a  vow  of 
silence.     H  379-  "Upharsin":    see  Dan.  5:5,  25. 

(275)  430.  IshmaeVs  children:  the  Indians.  See  the  Bible  story  of  Ishmael, 
son  of  Hagar,  whom  the  jealousy  of  Sarah,  Abraham's  other  wife,  drove  away; 
"And  he  grew,  and  dwelt  in  the  wilderness,  and  became  an  archer"  (Gen.  21:21). 
U  441.  this  wonderful  land:  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  the  watershed  of  the  great 
rivers  described  in  the  preceding  lines,  lie  a  long  way  from  the  Ozark  Mountains; 
Longfellow  seems  to  mean,  therefore,  only  that  Gabriel  had  reached  the  eastern 
border  of  the  vast  region  in  the  center  of  which  run  the  Rockies;  it  is  Gabriel,  not 
the  "wonderful  land,"  that  is  "at  the  base  of  the  Ozark  Mountains."  H  449- 
Fata  Morgana:  a  fay  of  mediaeval  romance,  sister  of  King  Arthur,  who  has  magic 
powers;  the  name  was  also  given  to  a  mirage  often  seen  in  the  strait  of  Messina, 
and  the  allusion  here  seems  to  be  chiefly  to  that. 

(279)  561.  asphodel  flowers:  in  Greek  mythology  the  flowers  of  the  world  of  the 
dead,  nepenthe:  a  soothing  potion  (Greek  i^;,  "not";  irtv0ot,  "sorrow").  1(577. 
the  battle-fields  of  the  army:  i.e.,  in  the  Revolutionary  War. 

(281)  633.  a  pestilence  fell  on  the  city:  the  yellow  fever  visited  Philadelphia  in 
1793-  H  634.  Presaged  ....  by  flocks  of  wild  pigeons:  "  Among  the  country  people 
large  quantities  of  wild  pigeons  in  the  spring  are  regarded  as  certain  indications  of  an 
unhealthy  summer.  Whether  or  not  this  prognostication  has  ever  been  verified 
before  I  cannot  tell.  But  it  is  very  certain  that  during  the  last  spring  the  numbers  of 
those  birds  brought  to  market  were  immense;  never,  perhaps,  were  there  so  many 
before."— Matthew  Carey,  A  Short  Account  of  the  Malignant  Fever  Lately  Prevalent 
in  Philadelphia,  chap.  16.  If  645.  Now  the  city  surrounds  it:  Longfellow  wrote  to 


580  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  on  March  12,  1876,  that  when  he  was  walking  about  in 
Philadelphia,  in  1826,  he  came  to  an  old  almshouse,  surrounded  by  brick  walls; 
and  that  this  secluded  retreat  in  the  midst  of  the  busy  city  made  so  deep  an  impres 
sion  upon  him  that  years  after  he  chose  it  as  the  scene  of  the  reunion  of  Evangeline 
and  Gabriel.  U  663.  Swedes  in  the  church  at  Wicaco:  Swedes  were  the  first  settlers 
in  Philadelphia  and  the  vicinity,  preceding  Penn  and  his  fellow-colonists. 

(282)  690,  691.  Ex.  12:7,  13:    "And  they  shall  take  of  the  blood,  and  strike 

it  on  the  two  side-posts  and  on  the  upper  door-post  of  the  houses And  the 

blood  shall  be  to  you  for  a  token  upon  the  houses  where  ye  are:  and  when  I  see  the 
blood,  I  will  pass  over  you,  and  the  plague  shall  not  be  upon  you  to  destroy  you, 
when  I  smite  the  land  of  Egypt." 

(285)  THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA.  "This  Indian  Edda — if  I  may  so  call  it — is 
founded  on  a  tradition  prevalent  among  the  North  American  Indians,  of  a  personage 
of  miraculous  birth,  who  was  sent  among  them  to  clear  their  rivers,  forests,  and 

fishing-grounds,  and  to  teach  them  the  arts  of  peace Mr.  Schoolcraft  gives 

an  account  of  him  in  his  Algic  Researches,  Vol.  I,  p.  134;  and  in  his  History,  Condi 
tion,  and  Prospects  of  the  Indian  Tribes  of  the  United  States,  Part  III,  p.  314,  may  be 
found  the  Iroquois  form  of  the  tradition,  derived  from  the  verbal  narrations  of  an 
Onondaga  chief.  Into  this  old  tradition  I  have  woven  other  curious  Indian  legends, 
drawn  chiefly  from  the  various  and  valuable  writings  of  Mr.  Schoolcraft.  ... 
The  scene  of  the  poem  is  among  the  Ojibways  on  the  southern  shore  of  Lake  Superior, 
in  the  region  between  the  Pictured  Rocks  and  the  Grand  Sable." — Note  in  the  1855 
edition.  The  explanations  of  Indian  terms  are  taken  from  the  Vocabulary  of  the 
1855  edition. 

(285)  Hiawatha's  Childhood. 

(286)  63.  Wahonowin:    a  cry  of  lamentation. 

(287)  80.  the  Naked  Bear:   "  Heckewelder,  in  a  letter  published  in  the  Trans 
actions  of  the  American  Philosophical  Society,  Vol.  IV,  p.  260,  speaks  of  this  tradition 
as  prevalent  among  the  Mohicans  and  Delawares.    'Their  reports,'  he  says,  'run 
thus:   that  among  all  animals  that  had  been  formerly  in  this  country  this  was  the 
most  ferocious;   that  it  was  much  larger  than  the  largest  of  the  common  bears,  and 
remarkably  long-bodied;  all  over  (except  a  spot  of  hair  on  its  back,  of  a  white  color) 
naked."' — Note   in    1855   edition.     U  82.  Ewa-yea:    a   lullaby.     1f  103.  "Minne- 
wawa":  a  pleasant  sound,  as  of  the  wind  in  the  trees.     If  104.  " M udway-aushka ": 
the  sound  of  waves  on  the  shore. 

(290)  Hiawatha's  Fishing.  Cf.  the  following  account  of  the  original  Indian 
legend,  from  H.  R.  Schoolcraft's  Myth  of  Hiawatha  (1856): 

"'When  he  [Hiawatha's  grandfather]  was  alive,'  she  [Hiawatha's  grandmother] 
continued,  'I  was  never  without  oil  to  put  on  my  head,  but  now  my  hair  is  fast 
falling  off  for  the  want  of  it.'  'Well,'  said  he,  'Noko,  get  cedar  bark  and  make  me  a 
line,  whilst  I  make  a  canoe.'  When  all  was  ready,  he  went  out  to  the  middle  of  the 
lake  to  fish.  He  put  his  line  down,  saying,  '  Me-she-nah-ma-gwai  (the  name  of  the 
kingfish),  take  hold  of  my  bait.'  He  kept  repeating  this  for  some  time.  At  last  the 
king  of  the  fishes  said,  'Manabozho  [  =  Hiawatha]  troubles  me.  Here,  Trout,  take 
hold  of  his  line.'  The  trout  did  so.  He  then  commenced  drawing  up  his  line,  which 
was  very  heavy,  so  that  his  canoe  stood  nearly  perpendicular;  but  he  kept  crying 


NOTES  581 


out,  'VVha-ee-he!  wha-ee-he!'  till  he  could  see  the  trout.  As  soon  as  he  saw  him, 
he  spoke  to  him:  'Why  did  you  take  hold  of  my  hook?  Esa!  esal1  you  ugly  fish!' 
The  trout,  being  thus  rebuked,  let  go.  Manabozho  put  his  line  again  in  the  water, 
saying,  'King  of  fishes,  take  hold  of  my  line.'  But  the  king  of  the  fishes  told  a 
monstrous  sunfish  to  take  hold  of  it,  for  Manabozho  was  tiring  him  with  his  incessant 
calls.  He  again  drew  up  his  line  with  difficulty,  saying  as  before,  'Wha-ee-he! 
wha-ee-he! '  while  his  canoe  was  turning  in  swift  circles.  When  he  saw  the  sunfish  he 
cried,  'Esa!  esa!  you  odious  fish!  why  did  you  dirty  my  hook  by  taking  it  into  your 
mouth  ?  Let  go,  I  say,  let  go! '  The  sunfish  did  so,  and  told  the  king  of  fishes  what 
Manabozho  said.  Just  at  that  moment  the  bait  came  near  the  king;  and  hearing 
Manabozho  continually  crying  out,  '  Me-she-nah-ma-gwai,  take  hold  of  my  hook,' 
at  last  he  did  so,  and  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  up  to  the  surface,  which  he  had  no 
sooner  reached  than,  at  one  mouthful,  he  took  Manabozho  and  his  canoe  down. 
When  he  came  to  himself,  be  found  that  he  was  in  the  fish's  belly,  and  also  his  canoe. 
He  now  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  way  of  making  his  escape.  Looking  in  his 
canoe,  he  saw  his  war-club,  with  which  he  immediately  struck  the  heart  of  the  fish. 
He  then  felt  a  sudden  motion,  as  if  he  were  moving  with  great  velocity.  The 
fish  observed  to  the  others,  'I  am  sick  at  stomach  for  having  swallowed  this  dirty 
fellow,  Manabozho.'  Just  at  this  moment  he  received  another  severe  blow  on  the 
heart.  Manabozho  thought,  'If  I  am  thrown  up  in  the  middle  of  the  lake,  I  shall 
be  drowned,  so  I  must  prevent  it.'  He  drew  his  canoe  and  placed  it  across  the  fish's 
throat;  and,  just  as  he  had  finished,  the  fish  commenced  vomiting,  but  to  no  effect. 
In  this  he  was  aided  by  a  squirrel,  who  had  accompanied  him  unperceived  until  that 
moment.  This  animal  had  taken  an  active  part  in  helping  him  to  place  his  canoe 
across  the  fish's  throat.  For  this  act  he  named  him,  saying,  '  For  the  future,  boys 
shall  always  call  you  Ajidaumo."  He  then  renewed  his  attack  upon  the  fish's 
heart,  and  succeeded,  by  repeated  blows,  in  killing  him,  which  he  first  knew  by  the 
loss  of  motion  and  by  the  sound  of  the  beating  of  the  body  against  the  shore.  He 
waited  a  day  longer  to  see  what  would  happen.  He  heard  birds  scratching  on  the 
body,  and  all  at  once  the  rays  of  light  broke  in.  He  could  see  the  heads  of  gulls, 
who  were  looking  in  by  the  opening  they  had  made.  'Oh,'  cried  Manabozho,  'my 
younger  brothers,  make  the  opening  larger,  so  that  I  can  get  out.'  They  told  each 
other  that  their  brother,  Manabozho,  was  inside  of  the  fish.  They  immediately 
set  about  enlarging  the  orifice,  and  in  a  short  time  liberated  him.  After  he  got  out 
he  said  to  the  gulls,  'For  the  future  you  shall  be  called  Kayoshk.'  for  your  kindness 
to  me.'  The  spot  where  the  fish  happened  to  be  driven  ashore  was  near  his  lodge. 
He  went  up,  and  told  his  grandmother  to  go  and  prepare  as  much  oil  as  she  wanted. 
All  besides,  he  informed  her,  he  should  keep  for  himself." 

(296  The  Famine. 

(297)  31.  the  ghosts:  in  the  preceding  section  had  been  described  two  spirits 
of  the  dead,  who  lived  for  a  time  in  Hiawatha's  wigwam. 


1 "  An  interjection  equivalent  to  'shame!  shame!'  " — Schoolcraft's  note. 
•"Animal  tail,  or  bottom  upward." — Schoolcraft's  note. 

»"A  free  translation  of  th»  -rpression  might  be  rendered.  'Noble  scratchers  or  grab 
bers.'  " — Schoolcraft's  not*. 


582  AMERICAN  POEMS 


(299)  106.  Pauguk:  Death. 

(301)  MY  LOST  YOUTH.     H  13.  islands:    there  are  more  than  three  hundred 
islands  in  Portland  harbor.     Hesperides:    the  Hesperides,  in  ancient  geography, 
were  a  group  of  islands  in  the  Atlantic,  at  the  limits  of  the  known  world;  hence  thej 
came  to  stand,  as  here,  for  any  distant  region  the  goal  of  romantic  voyaging. 

(302)  37.  the  sea-fight  far  away:  a  fight  between  an  American  brig,  the  "Enter 
prise,"  and  a  British  brig,  the  "Boxer,"  in  1813;   it  took  place  within  sight  of  the 
shore,  and  ended  in  a  victory  for  the  "Enterprise";  both  captains  were  killed,  and 
were  buried  side  by  side. 

(303)  THE   CHILDREN'S   HOUR.     First   published   in    The   Atlantic  Monthly, 
September,  1860. 

(304)  27.  the  Bishop  of  Bingen:   there  is  an  old  legend  that  a  German  bishop 
of  the  tenth  century,  for  his  cruelty  to  the  common  people  during  a  famine,  was 
devoured  by  an  army  of  mice  in  his  castle.     H  31.  old  raouslache=o\d  soldier. 

(305)  PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE.     First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Janu 
ary,  1861.     Paul  Revere's  own  account  of  the  ride,  which  Longfellow  may  have 
taken  as  the  basis  of  his  poem,  is  in  part  as  follows.     "In  the  fall  of  1774  and  winter 
of  1775,  I  was  one  of  upwards  of  thirty,  chiefly  mechanics,  who  formed  ourselves 
into  a  committee  for  the  purpose  of  watching  the  movements  of  the  British  soldiers, 

and  gaining  every  intelligence  of  the  movements  of  the  Tories On  Tuesday 

evening,  the  i8th,  it  was  observed  that  a  number  of  soldier  were  marching  towards 
the  bottom  of  the  Common.    About  10  o'clock  Dr.  Warren  sent  in  great  haste  for  me. 
and  begged  that  I  would  immediately  set  off  for  Lexington,  where  Messrs.  Hancock 
and  Adams  were,  and  acquaint  them  of  the  movement  and  that  it  was  thought  they 
were  the  objects.     When  I  got  to  Dr.  Warren's  house,  I  found  he  had  sent  an 
express  by  land  to  Lexington — a  Mr.  William  Dawes.     The  Sunday  before,  by  desire 
of  Dr.  Warren,  I  had  been  to  Lexington,  to  Messrs.  Hancock  and  Adams,  who  were 
at  the  Rev.  Mr.  Clark's.     I  returned  at  night  through  Charlestown.     There  I  agreed 
with  a  Colonel  Conant  and  some  other  gentlemen  that  if  the  British  went  out  by 
water,  we  would  shew  two  lanthorns  in  the  north  church  steeple,  and  if  by  land,  one, 
as  a  signal,  for  we  were  apprehensive  it  would  be  difficult  to  cross  the  Charles  River 
or  get  over  Boston  neck.     I  left  Dr.  Warren,  called  upon  a  friend  and  desired  him  to 
make  the  signals.     I  then  went  home,  took  my  boots  and  surtout,  went  to  the  north 
part  of  the  town,  where  I  had  kept  a  boat.     Two  friends  rowed  me  across  Charles 
River,  a  little  to  the  eastward  where  the  Somerset  man  of  war  lay.     It  was  then 
young  flood,  the  ship  was  winding,  and  the  moon  was  rising.     They  landed  me  on 
the  Charlestown  side.     Wrhen  I  got  into  town,  I  met  Colonel  Conant  and  several 
others;  they  said  they  had  seen  our  signals.     I  told  them  what  was  acting,  and 

went  to  get  me  a  horse;  I  got  a  horse  of  Deacon  Larkin I  set  off  upon  a  very 

good  horse;    it  was  then  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  very  pleasant.     After   I  had 
passed  Charlestown  neck,  and  got  nearly  opposite  where  Mark  was  hung  in  chains, 
I  saw  two  men  on  horseback  under  a  tree.     When  I  got  near  them,  I  discovered 
they  were  British  officers.     One  tried  to  get  ahead  of  me,  and  the  other  to  take  me. 
I  turned  my  horse  very  quick,  and  galloped  towards  Charlestown  neck,  and  then 
pushed  for  the  Medford  road.     The  one  who  chased  me,  endeavouring  to  cut  me  off, 
got  into  a  clay  pond,  near  where  the  new  tavern  is  now  built.    I  got  clear  of  him  .and 


NOTES  583 


went  through  Medford,  over  the  bridge,  and  up  to  Menotomy.  In  Medford  I 
awaked  the  Captain  of  the  minute  men;  and  after  that  I  alarmed  almost  every  house 
till  I  got  to  Lexington.  I  found  Messrs.  Hancock  and  Adams  at  the  Rev.  Mr. 

Clark's After  I  had  been  there  about  half  an  hour,  Mr.  Dawes  came;   we 

refreshed  ourselves,  and  set  off  for  Concord,  to  secure  the  stores  &c.,  there.     We  were 

overtaken  by  a  young  Dr.  Prescot,  whom  we  found  to  be  a  high  son  of  liberty 

We  had  got  nearly  half  way.  Mr.  Dawes  and  the  Doctor  stopped  to  alarm  the 
people  of  a  house;  1  was  about  one  hundred  rods  ahead,  when  I  saw  two  men  in 
nearly  the  same  situation  as  those  officers  were  near  Charlestown.  I  called  for  the 
Doctor  and  Mr.  Dawes  to  come  up.  In  an  instant  I  was  surrounded  by  four:  they 
had  placed  themselves  in  a  straight  road  that  inclined  each  way;  they  had  taken 
down  a  pair  of  bars  on  the  north  side  of  the  road,  and  two  of  them  were  under  a  tree 
in  the  pasture  The  Doctor  being  foremost,  he  came  up,  and  we  tried  to  get  past 
them;  but  they  being  armed  with  pistols  and  swords,  they  forced  us  into  the  pas 
ture.  The  Doctor  jumped  his  horse  over  a  low  stone  wall,  and  got  to  Concord. 
I  observed  a  wood  at  a  small  distance,  and  made  for  that.  When  I  got  there,  out 
started  six  officers  on  horseback,  and  ordered  me  to  dismount.  One  of  them,  who 
appeared  to  have  the  command,  examined  me  where  I  came  from  and  what  my  name 
was:  I  told  him.  He  asked  if  I  was  an  express:  I  answered  in  the  affirmative.  He 
demanded  what  time  I  left  Boston:  I  told  him;  and  added  that  their  troops  had 
catched  aground  in  passing  the  river,  and  that  there  would  be  five  hundred  Ameri 
cans  there  in  a  short  time  for  I  had  alarmed  the  country  all  the  way  up."— Massa 
chusetts  Historical  Society's  Collections,  First  Series,  Vol.  V,  pp.  106  ff. 

(307)  107.  one:   Isaac  Davis,  captain  of  the  militia  from   Acton,  a   village 
adjoining  Concord;    see  p.  589. 

(308)  WEARINESS.     First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  November,  1863. 

(309)  DIVINA  COMMEDIA.     First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  December, 
1864.     The  first  of  a  series  of  six  sonnets  suggested  by  the  poet's  prolonged  labor 
in  translating  Dante's  Divina  Commedia;   in  this  sonnet  is  an  allusion  to  the  fact 
that  in  the  work  he  found  a  refuge  from  the  sorrow  caused  by  his  wife's  death  in  1861. 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"We  come  to  the  following  'Winter  Piece,'  by  a  poet  whom  we  do  not  recollect 
having  before  heard  of — H.  W.  Longfellow  ('Phoebus,  what  a  name!') — which 
seems  to  us  remarkably  graphic.  Its  accumulation  of  American  winter  imagery 
produces  a  feeling  like  Shakspeare's  'When  icicles  hang  on  the  wall,'  till  we  almost 
begin  with  Hob  'to  blow  the  nail.'" — The  Edinburgh  Review,  April,  1835. 

"We  have  no  idea  of  commenting,  at  any  length,  upon  this  plagiarism,  which 
is  too  palpable  to  be  mistaken,  and  which  belongs  to  the  most  barbarous  class  of 
literary  robbery:  that  class  in  which,  while  the  words  of  the  wronged  author  are 
avoided,  his  most  intangible  and  therefore  his  least  defensible  and  least  reclaimable 
property  is  purloined." — Edgar  A.  Poe,  in  Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,  Febru 
ary,  1840.  (The  poems  referred  to  are  Longfellow's  "  Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying 
Year"  and  Tennyson's  "Death  of  the  Old  Year.")  "Much  as  we  admire  the  genius 
of  Mr.  Longfellow,  we  are  fully  sensible  of  his  many  errors  of  affectation  and  imi 
tation.  His  artistical  skill  is  great,  and  his  ideality  high.  But  his  conception  of 


584  AMERICAN  POEMS 


the  aims  of  poesy  is  all  wrong;  and  this  we  shall  prove  at  some  future  day— to  our 

own  satisfaction,  at  least.     His  didactics  are  all  out  of  place We  do  not  mean 

to  say  that  a  didactic  moral  may  not  be  well  made  the  under-current  of  a  poetical  thesis, 
but  that  it  can  never  well  be  put  so  obtrusively  forth  as  in  the  majority  of  his  compo 
sitions."—  Poe,  in  Graham's  Magazine,  March,  1842.  "In  placing  a  copy  of  ancient 
hexameters  side  by  side  with  a  copy  (in  similar  type)  of  such  hexameters  as  Pro 
fessor  Longfellow,  or  Professor  Felton,  or  the  Frogpondian  Professors  collectively, 
are  in  the  shameful  practice  of  composing  'on  the  model  of  the  Greek,'  it  will  be 
seen  that  the  latter  (hexameters,  not  professors)  are  about  one  third  longer  to  the 
eye,  on  an  average,  than  the  former.  The  more  abundant  dactyls  make  the  differ 
ence.  And  it  is  the  greater  number  of  spondees  in  the  Greek  than  in  the  English — 
in  the  ancient  than  in  the  modern  tongue — which  has  caused  it  to  fall  out  that 
while  these  eminent  scholars  were  groping  about  in  the  dark  for  a  Greek  hexameter, 
which  is  a  spondaic  rhythm  varied  now  and  then  by  dactyls,  they  merely  stumbled, 
to  the  lasting  scandal  of  scholarship,  over  something  which,  on  account  of  its  long- 
leggedness,  we  may  as  well  term  a  Feltonian  hexameter,  and  which  is  a  dactylic 
rhythm,  interrupted,  rarely,  by  artificial  spondees  which  are  no  spondees  at  all,  and 
which  are  curiously  thrown  in  by  the  heels  at  all  kinds  of  improper  and  impertinent 

points Mr.  Longfellow  is  a  man  of  imagination — but  can  he  imagine  that 

any  individual,  with  a  proper  understanding  of  the  danger  of  lockjaw,  would  make 
the  attempt  of  twisting  his  mouth  into  the  shape  necessary  for  the  emission  of  such 
spondees  as  'parents,'  or  such  dactyls  as  'cleaned  and  the'  and  'loved  ones  of? 
'  Baptism'  is  by  no  means  a  bad  spondee — perhaps  because  it  happens  to  be  a  dactyl; 
—of  all  the  rest,  however,  I  am  dreadfully  ashamed."— Edgar  A.  Poe,  "The  Ration 
ale  of  Verse,"  1843,  1848. 

"The  poem  ["Evangeline"]  is  constructed  with  more  art  and  skill  than  any  of 
Mr.  Longfellow's  previous  writings.  The  opening  and  closing  lines  balance  each 
other  with  admirable  effect;  and  the  contrast  between  the  scenes  described  in  the 
first  part  and  the  more  gorgeous  passages  in  the  second,  while  both  are  purely 
American  (enough  so  to  satisfy  the  most  fanatical  prater  about  Americanism  in 

literature),  gives  a  delightful  variety  to  the  narrative In  'Evangeline'  Mr. 

Longfellow  has  managed  the  hexameter  with  wonderful  skill.  The  homely  features 
of  Acadian  life  are  painted  with  Homeric  simplicity,  while  the  luxuriance  of  a  South 
ern  climate  is  magnificently  described  with  equal  fidelity  and  minuteness  of  finish. 
The  subject  is  eminently  fitted  for  this  treatment;  and  Mr.  Longfellow's  extraor 
dinary  command  over  the  rhythmical  resources  of  language  has  enabled  him  to 
handle  it  certainly  with  as  perfect  a  mastery  of  the  dactylic  hexameter  as  any  one 
has  ever  acquired  in  our  language.  Of  the  other  beauties  of  the  poem  we  have 
scarcely  left  ourselves  space  to  say  a  word;  but  we  cannot  help  calling  our  readers' 
attention  to  the  exquisite  character  of  Evangeline  herself.  As  her  virtues  are 
unfolded  by  the  patience  and  religious  trust  with  which  she  passes  through  her 
pilgrimage  of  toil  and  disappointment,  she  becomes  invested  with  a  beauty  as  of 
angels.  Her  last  years  are  made  to  harmonize  the  discords  of  a  life  of  sorrow  and 
endurance.  The  closing  scenes,  though  informed  with  the  deepest  pathos,  inspire 
us  with  sadness,  it  is  true,  but  at  the  same  time  leave  behind  a  calm  feeling  that  the 


NOTES  585 


highest  aim  of  her  existence  has  been  attained."— The  North  American  Review, 
January,  1848. 

"This  ["Evangeline"]  is  an  American  poem,  full  of  beauties  of  really  indigenous 
American  growth;  and  we  hail  its  appearance  with  the  greater  satisfaction  inasmuch 
as  it  is  the  first  genuine  Castalian  fount  which  has  burst  from  the  soil  of  America. 
The  verse-writers  who  have  arisen  among  our  Transatlantic  cousins  have  produced 
many  very  graceful  and  pleasing  lines,  and  some  animated  and  stirring  strains; 
but  still  they  have  done  little  more  than  imitate  favourite  poets  of  the  old  country. 
....  To  this  general  remark  we  conceive  the  poem  of  Mr.  Longfellow  now  before 
us  to  be  a  happy  exception.  Not  only  are  the  scenes  and  the  history  American, 
....  but  the  mode  of  narration  has  a  peculiar  and  native  simplicity;  the  local 
colouring  is  laid  on  with  a  broad  and  familiar  brush In  general  Mr.  Long 
fellow's  hexameters  are  good.  They  have,  without  doing  any  violence  to  the 
pronunciation,  the  mixed  trisyllable  and  dissyllable  flow  which  is  the  character  of 
this  kind  of  verse."— Eraser's  Magazine,  March,  1848. 

"He  seems,  like  Carlyle,  to  have  perverted  a  good  natural  taste  into  one 
that  is  artificial  and  morbid.  The  language  of  his  earlier  productions  is  easy 
and  expressive,  the  measure  well  chosen  and  familiar.  In  the  later  poems  he  has 
been  led  away  by  that  ignis  fatuus  which  pedants  call  rhythm,  and  goes  halting  and 
stumbling,  over  outlandish  ground,  with  constant  inversions  and  transpositions, 
among  dactyls  and  spondees,  trochees  and  iambuses,  anapaests  and  what  not — 
whose  intricate  feet  will  trip  and  overthrow  any  plain  English  biped  at  every  step 

of  his  progress The  poem  ["Evangeline "J  abounds  with  passages  of  beautiful 

poetry  and  sentiment,  but  travestied  in  such  a  grotesque  costume  of  hexameter 

verse  as  to  disguise  all  their  natural  loveliness These  blemishes,  added  to 

many  of  the  home-spun  images — for  which  we  are  indebted  to  the  'simplicity' 
theory,— make  the  whole  work  distasteful  to  an  ear  even  tolerably  fastidious,  and 
must  consign  it  to  a  very  humble  place  among  Mr.  Longfellow's  productions." — 
The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  January,  1849. 

"His  poetry  was  never  destined  to  rapid  and  universal  popularity,  for  it  lacks 
the  Satanic  glare  of  Byron,  the  epicurean  glitter  of  Moore,  and  the  strong,  natural, 
deep,  unaffected  pathos,  humor,  and  home-interest  of  Burns;  while  it  certainly 
cannot  boast  that  indefinable  magic  of  a  higher  and  the  highest  genius,  which 

It  is  not  in  man  to  resist The  lines  [of  "Evangeline"],  if  we  are  not  mistaken, 

are  hexameter;  at  all  events,  they  can  be  scanned  as  such  by  ear  if  not  by  rule. 
Our  prosody  is  too  variable  and  irregular  to  permit  this  metre,  the  genius  of  our 

language  is  averse  to  it Whatever  it  may  be  in  Homer  and  Virgil,  when 

transplanted  into  English  the  hexameter  is  far  inferior  to  our  blank  verse,  and  to 

our  taste  intolerable Of  the  tale  itself— the  incident,  the  plot— we  need  not 

speak;  it  is  subordinate.  The  portraiture  of  the  finer  feelings  of  the  heart,  the  con 
templation  of  the  beautiful  in  man  and  in  nature,  give  value  and  fascination  to  the 
book.  The  fervent  way  in  which  the  author  is  seen  to  feel  what  he  creates  gives 
a  charm  to  his  characters  which  no  art  can  bestow,  and  they  live  because  he  loves 
them.  Evangeline,  as  a  Sister  of  Charity,  is  as  pure  a  conception  as  Protestantism 
permits. — Brownson's  Quarterly  Review,  January,  1850. 


S86  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"One  of  the  first,  if  not  the  very  first,  characteristics  of  Longfellow's  poetry 
is  his  earnest  and  sincere  devotion  to  moral  beauty,  to  truth.  In  this  respect  his 
whole  history,  as  embodied  in  his  poetical  records,  is  directly  in  opposition  to  the 
absurd  theory  of  Poe  in  his  'Lecture  on  the  Poetic  Principle.'  ....  Longfellow's 
reach  of  imagination  is  not,  perhaps,  as  great  as  some  other  of  his  powers,  being  more 
subtle  and  refined  than  powerful  and  comprehensive;  it  is,  nevertheless,  of  a  very 
high  order,  and  is  equalled  by  few  living  writers.  Of  pure  fancy  he  has  but  little: 
he  is  too  serious  to  be  fanciful.  He  ever  remembers  that '  Life  is  real !  life  is  earnest! ' 
In  point  of  a  refined  tenderness  and  pathos  Longfellow  again  stands  pre-eminent; 
no  poet,  at  least  in  this  age,  has  equalled  him  in  this  department  of  the  divine  art. 
His  sympathies  are  deep  and  unbounded.  In  this  respect,  and  in  this  alone,  he  is 
the  poet  of  the  people."— The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  October  and  November, 

1851. 

"In  our  opinion  Longfellow  at  this  moment  stands,  beyond  comparison,  at  the 
head  of  the  poets  of  America,  and  may  be  considered  as  an  equal  competitor  for 

the  palm  with  any  one  of  the  younger  poets  of  Great  Britain We  have  no 

hesitation  in  expressing  our  opinion  that  there  is  nearly  as  much  fine  poetry  in  Mr. 

Longfellow's  'Golden  Legend'  as  in  the  celebrated  drama  of  Goethe In 

respect  of  melody,  feeling,  pathos,  and  that  exquisite  simplicity  of  expression  which 
is  the  criterion  of  a  genuine  poet,  Mr.  Longfellow  need  not  shun  comparison  with  any 
living  writer.  He  is  not  only  by  nature  a  poet,  but  he  has  cultivated  his  poetical 

powers  to  the  utmost And  yet,  exquisite  as  the  product  is  which  he  has  now 

given  us,  there  is  a  large  portion  of  it  which  we  cannot  style  as  truly  original.  In  the 
honey  which  he  presents  to  us — and  a  delicious  compound  it  is — we  can  always 
detect  the  flavour  of  the  parent  flowers." — Blackwood's  Magazine,  February,  1852. 

"For  ourselves,  we  confess  that  in  this  'North  American'  blood  of  ours  there 
is  enough  of  the  native  element  to  induce  a  thorough  'Ugh'  of  satisfaction.  We 
could  not  have  written  a  better  Indian  poem,  and  we  do  not  think  Mr.  Longfellow 
could,  and  we  do  not  think  anybody  else  could.  We  do  not  believe  that  a  series 
of  Indian  legends  should  be  written  in  the  state  or  dignity  of  'Paradise  Lost'; 
nor  do  we  believe  that  they  should  have  been  wrought  into  an  epic  because  other 
countries  and  times  have  loved  epics,  nor  into  a  string  of  rhymed  ballads  because 
other  countries  and  times  have  loved  such.  The  explanation  of  the  choice  of  rhythm^ 

metre,  and  all  external  form  is  made  in  the  introduction  and  is  complete In 

short,  'Hiawatha'  is  the  first  permanent  contribution  to  the  world's  belles-lettres 
made  from  Indian  authorities.  We  have  had  a  great  many  mock  Indians,  like  the 
Indians  of  the  stage.  Here  is  the  first  poem  which  savors  of  the  prairie  or  the  moun 
tain  hunting-trail."— Edward  Everett  Hale,  in  The  North  American  Review,  January, 
1856. 

"None  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  poems  show  much  creative  or  dramatic  power 
except  'Hiawatha,'  in  which  a  small  germ  of  Indian  tradition  has  been  expanded 
into  an  altogether  unique  story — a  strange  mixture  of  mythology,  romance,  and 
fable,  as  unlike  all  other  poems  with  which  we  are  acquainted  as  a  savage  in  his 
war-paint  is  unlike  all  civilized  people,  but  not  without  some  vigorous  pictures  of 
forest  lift  and  scenery,  and  a  certain  soft  and  noiseless  grace  like  that  of  the  people 
it  describes His  poetical  faculty  is  well  adapted  for  the  narration  of  some 


NOTES  587 


simple  story  which  keeps  the  even  tenor  of  its  way  among  the  pastoral  occupations 
and  fireside  incidents  of  a  primitive  people;  and  such  have  been  the  subjects  he  has 
chosen  for  two  of  his  longest  poems,  'Evangeline'  and  'The  Courtship  of  Miles 
Standish,'  of  which  the  earlier  poem  is  in  our  opinion  far  better  than  the  later  one. 
....  Both  of  them  are  stories  from  the  annals  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  own  land; 
and  with  these,  from  the  simpler  and  more  elementary  character  of  the  events 
recorded  in  them,  he  is  less  incompetent  to  deal  than  with  the  earlier  stages  of 
European  civilization.  The  hexameter  metre  in  which  they  are  written  is  not 
altogether  unadapted  to  their  subject  or  to  the  fluent  garrulity  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
narrative.  The  effect,  however,  of  these  and  of  all  other  English  hexameters  with 
which  we  are  acquainted,  soon  becomes  unpleasant.  They  lead  one  on  and  on, 
but  with  an  increasing  desire  to  stop.  They  seem  necessarily  to  generate  standing 

attributes  and  stock  phrases In  intimating  that  a  certain  commonplace 

and  superficial  character  belongs  to  all  Mr.  Longfellow's  poetry,  we  by  no  means 

imply  that  he  is  not  a  true  poet Indeed,  his  very  success  in  what  he  aims  at 

is  greatly  owing,  not  of  course,  to  his  powers  being  limited,  but  to  their  being  equally 

limited  in  every  direction A  tithe  of  Browning's  psychological  subtlety 

or  Tennyson's  ripened  wisdom  would  have  checked  Mr.  Longfellow's  facile  and 
melodious  utterance  of  fallacious  commonplaces  and  popular  half-truths;  but  it 
would  also  have  deprived  us  of  many  graceful  fancies,  salutary  thoughts,  and  pretty 
and  finished  pictures." — The  National  Review  (as  reprinted  in  Littell's  Living  Age, 
February  12,  1859). 

"I  can't  imagine  any  better  luck  befalling  these  States  fo"  a  poetical  beginning 
and  initiation  than  has  come  from  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Bryant,  and  Whittier. 

....  Each    illustrious,    each    rounded,    each    distinctive Longfellow  for 

rich  color,  graceful  forms,  and  incidents — all  that  makes  life  beautiful  and  love  refined 
— competing  with  the  singers  of  Europe  on  their  own  ground,  and,  with  one  excep 
tion,  better  and  finer  work  than  that  of  any  of  them." — Walt  Whitman,  Specimen 
Days,  April  16,  1881.  "Longfellow,  reminiscent,  polish'd,  elegant,  with  the  air  of 
finest  conventional  library,  picture-gallery,  or  parlor,  with  ladies  and  gentlemen  in 
them,  and  plush  and  rosewood,  and  ground-glass  lamps,  and  mahogany  and  ebony 
furniture,  and  a  silver  inkstand  and  scented  satin  paper  to  write  on." — Walt  Whit 
man,  "Old  Poets"  (1890),  in  Complete  Prose  Works. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

"Notwithstanding  this  necessity  to  be  published,  adequate  expression  is  rare. 
I  know  not  how  it  is  that  we  need  an  interpreter;  but  the  great  majority  of  men 
seem  to  be  minors,  who  have  not  yet  come  into  possession  of  their  own,  or  mutes, 
who  cannot  report  the  conversation  they  have  had  with  nature.  There  is  no  man 
who  does  not  anticipate  a  supersensual  utility  in  the  sun  and  stars,  earth  and  water. 
These  stand  and  wait  to  render  him  a  peculiar  service.  But  there  is  some  obstruc 
tion,  or  some  excess  of  phlegm,  in  our  constitution,  which  does  not  suffer  them  to 
yield  the  due  effect.  Too  feeble  fall  the  impressions  of  nature  on  us  to  make  us 
artists.  Every  touch  should  thrill.  Every  man  should  be  so  much  an  artist  that  he 
~ould  report  in  conversation  what  had  befallen  him.  Yet.  in  our  experience,  the 


588  AMERICAN  POEMS 


rays  or  appulses  have  sufficient  force  to  arrive  at  the  senses,  but  not  enough  to 
reach  the  quick  and  compel  the  reproduction  of  themselves  in  speech.  The  poet  is 
the  person  in  whom  these  powers  are  in  balance,  the  man  without  impediment, 
who  sees  and  handles  that  which  others  dream  of,  traverses  the  whole  scale  of  experi 
ence,  and  is  representative  of  man  in  virtue  of  being  the  largest  power  to  receive  and 
to  impart.  For  the  Universe  has  three  children,  born  at  one  time,  which  reappear, 
under  different  names,  in  every  system  of  thought,  whether  they  be  called  cause, 
operation,  and  effect;  or,  more  poetically,  Jove,  Pluto,  Neptune;  or,  theologically, 
the  Father,  the  Spirit,  and  the  Son;  but  which  we  will  call  here  the  Knower,  the 
Doer,  and  the  Sayer.  These  stand  respectively  for  the  love  of  truth,  for  the  love  of 
good,  and  for  the  love  of  beauty.  These  three  are  equal.  Each  is  that  which  he 
is  essentially,  so  that  he  cannot  be  surmounted  or  analyzed,  and  each  of  these  three 
has  the  power  of  the  others  latent  in  him,  and  his  own  patent.  The  poet  is  the  sayer, 
the  namer,  and  represents  beauty.  He  is  a  sovereign,  and  stands  on  the  centre. 
For  the  world  is  not  painted  or  adorned,  but  is  from  the  beginning  beautiful;  and 
God  has  not  made  some  beautiful  things,  but  Beauty  is  the  creator  of  the  universe. 
Therefore  the  poet  is  not  any  permissive  potentate,  but  is  emperor  in  his  own  right 
....  For  poetry  was  all  written  before  time  was;  and  whenever  we  are  so  finely 
organized  that  we  can  penetrate  into  that  region  where  the  air  is  music,  we  hear 
those  primal  warblings  and  attempt  to  write  them  down,  but  we  lose  ever  and  anon 
a  word  or  a  verse,  and  substitute  something  of  our  own,  and  thus  miswrite  the  poem. 
The  men  of  more  delicate  ear  write  down  these  cadences  more  faithfully,  and  these 
transcripts,  though  imperfect,  become  the  songs  of  the  nations.  For  nature  is  as 
truly  beautiful  as  it  is  good  or  as  it  is  reasonable,  and  must  as  much  appear  as  it  must 

be  done  or  be  known Our  poets  are  men  of  talents  who  sing,  and  not  the 

children  of  music.  The  argument  is  secondary,  the  finish  of  the  verses  is  primary. 
For  it  is  not  metres,  but  a  metre-making  argument,  that  makes  a  poem — a  thought 
so  passionate  and  alive  that,  like  the  spirit  of  a  plant  or  an  animal,  it  has  an  archi 
tecture  of  its  own,  and  adorns  nature  with  a  new  thing.  The  thought  and  the  form 
are  equal  in  the  order  of  time,  but  in  the  order  of  genesis  the  thought  is  prior  to  the 
form.  The  poet  has  a  new  thought;  he  has  a  whole  new  experience  to  unfold:  he 
will  tell  us  how  it  was  with  him,  and  all  men  will  be  the  richer  in  his  fortune.  For 
the  experience  of  each  new  age  requires  a  new  confession,  and  the  world  seems 
always  waiting  for  its  poet." — Emerson,  "The  Poet,"  in  Essays,  Second  Series. 
The  text,  with  the  exceptions  noted,  is  from  the  1865  edition. 

(309)  GOOD-BYE.      First   published   in    The    Western   Messenger.      Emerson 
said  that  the  lines  were  written  when  he  was  teaching  school  in  Boston;  the  "sylvan 
home "  was  a  rural  part  of  the  neighboring  town  of  Roxbury ,  where  his  mother  was 
then  living. 

(310)  23,  24.  Cf.  Emerson's  Nature  (1851  edition),  chap,  iii:  "How  does  Nature 
deify  us  with  a  few  cheap  elements!     Give  me  health  and  a  day,  and  I  will  make 
the  pomp  of  emperors  ridiculous."     K  30.  Cf.  Ex.  3:1-5- 

(310)  THE  RHODORA.  First  published  in  The  Western  Messenger.  If  12. 
Beauty  is  Us  own  excuse  for  being:  cf.  Emerson's  Nature,  chap,  iii:  "The  world  thus 
exists  to  the  soul  to  satisfy  the  desire  of  beauty.  This  element  I  call  an  ultimate 
end.  No  reason  can  be  asked  or  given  why  the  soul  seeks  beauty.  Beauty,  in  it* 


NOTES  589 


largest  and  profoundest  sense,  is  one  expression  for  the  universe.  God  is  the  all- 
fair.  Truth  and  goodness  and  beauty  are  but  different  faces  of  the  same  All.  But 
beauty  in  nature  is  not  ultimate.  It  is  the  herald  of  inward  and  internal  beauty 
and  is  not  alone  a  solid  and  satisfactory  good.  It  must  stand  as  a  part,  and  not 
as  yet  the  last  or  highest  expression  of  the  final  cause  of  Nature." 

(310)  EACH  AND  ALL.  First  published  in  The  Western  Messenger.  The  funda 
mental  thought,  contained  in  11.  n,  12,  50,  51,  is  also  expressed  thus  in  Emerson's 
Nature,  chap.  Hi:  "Nature  is  a  sea  of  forms  radically  alike  and  even  unique.  A  leaf, 
a  sunbeam,  a  landscape,  the  ocean,  make  an  analogous  impression  on  the  mind. 
What  is  common  to  them  all — that  perfectness  and  harmony — is  beauty.  The 
standard  of  beauty  is  the  entire  circuit  of  natural  forms — the  totality  of  nature; 
which  the  Italians  expressed  by  denning  beauty  'il  piu  nelT  uno'  ["the  many  in  the 
one"].  Nothing  is  quite  beautiful  alone;  nothing  but  is  beautiful  in  the  whole 
A  single  object  is  only  so  far  beautiful  as  it  suggests  this  universal  grace." 

(312)  THE  APOLOGY.  ^  5-12.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  "Expostulation  and  Reply' 
and  "The  Tables  Turned." 

(312)  HYMN.  The  date  for  the  completion  of  the  battle  monument  is  now  giveiv 
as  July  4,  1837.  Emerson  thus  described  the  fight  at  Concord  and  the  spirit  ot 
"the  embattled  farmers,"  in  his  Historical  Discourse  (1835  edition)  on  the  second 
centennial  anniversary  of  Concord,  September  12,  1835:  "A  large  amount  of  mili 
tary  stores  had  been  deposited  in  this  town  by  order  of  the  Provincial  Committee 
of  Safety.  It  was  to  destroy  those  stores  that  the  troops  who  were  attacked  in  this 

town,  on  the  19  April,  1775,  were  sent  hither  by  General  Gage In  the 

field  where  the  western  abutment  of  the  old  bridge  may  still  be  seen the  first 

organized  resistance  was  made  to  the  British  arms.  There  the  Americans  first 
shed  British  blood.  Eight  hundred  British  soldiers,  under  the  command  of  Lieut. - 

Col.  Francis  Smith,  had  marched  from  Boston  to  Concord When  they 

entered  Concord,  they  found  the  militia  and  minute  men  assembled  under  the  com 
mand  of  Col.  Barrett  and  Major  Buttrick.  This  little  battalion,  though  in  their 
hasty  council  some  were  urgent  to  stand  their  ground,  retreated  before  the  enemy 
to  the  high  land  on  the  other  bank  of  the  river,  to  wait  for  reinforcement.  Col. 
Barrett  ordered  the  troops  not  to  fire  unless  fired  upon.  The  British,  following 
them  across  the  bridge,  posted  three  companies,  amounting  to  about  one  hundred 
men,  to  guard  the  bridge  and  secure  the  return  of  the  plundering  party.  Meantime 
the  men  of  Acton,  Bedford,  Lincoln,  and  Carlisle,  all  once  included  in  Concord, 
remembering  their  parent  town  in  the  hour  of  danger,  arrived  and  fell  into  the  ranks 
so  fast  that  Major  Buttrick  found  himself  superior  in  number  to  the  enemy's  party 
at  the  bridge.  And  when  the  smoke  began  to  rise  from  the  village,  where  the 
British  were  burning  cannon-carriages  and  military  stores,  the  Americans  resolved 
to  force  their  way  into  town.  The  English  beginning  to  pluck  up  some  of  the  planks 
of  the  bridge,  the  Americans  quickened  their  pace,  and  the  British  fired  one  or  two 
shots  up  the  river  (our  ancient  friend  here,  Master  Blood,  saw  the  water  struck  by 
the  first  ball);  then  a  single  gun,  the  ball  from  which  wounded  Luther  Blanchard 
and  Jonas  Brown,  and  then  a  volley,  by  which  Captain  Isaac  Davis  and  Abner 
llosmer  of  Acton  were  instantly  killed.  Major  Buttrick  leaped  from  the  ground  and 
gave  the  command  to  fire,  which  was  repeated  in  a  simultaneous  cry  by  all  his  men 


590  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  Americans  fired,  and  killed  two  men  and  wounded  eight.  A  head-stone  and  a 
foot-stone,  on  this  bank  of  the  river,  mark  the  place  where  these  first  victims  lie. 
The  British  retreated  immediately  towards  the  village,  and  were  joined  by  two 
companies  of  grenadiers,  whom  the  noise  of  the  firing  had  hastened  to  the  spot. 
....  The  British,  as  soon  as  they  were  rejoined  by  the  plundering  detachment, 
began  that  disastrous  retreat  to  Boston,  which  was  an  omen  to  both  parties  of  the 

event  of  the  war Those  poor  farmers  who  came  up  that  day  to  defend  their 

native  soil,  acted  from  the  simplest  instincts.  They  did  not  know  it  was  a  deed  of 
fame  they  were  doing.  These  men  did  not  babble  of  glory.  They  never  dreamed 
their  children  would  contend  who  had  done  the  most.  They  supposed  they  had  a 
right  to  their  corn  and  their  cattle,  without  paying  tribute  to  any  but  their  own 
governors.  And  as  they  had  no  fear  of  man,  they  yet  did  have  a  fear  of  God.  Capt. 
Charles  Miles,  who  was  wounded  in  the  pursuit  of  the  enemy,  told  my  venerable 
friend  who  sits  by  me,  'that  he  went  to  the  services  of  that  day  with  the  same 
seriousness  and  acknowledgement  of  God  which  he  carried  to  church.' " 

(315)  THE  PROBLEM.     First  published  in  The  Dial,  July,  1840.     An  entry  in 
Emerson's  journal,  August  28,  1838,  shows  that  the  contradiction  between  his  deep 
reverence  for  a  good  priest  of  any  church  and  his  unwillingness  to  be  a  priest  or 
even  a  clergyman,  was  a  real  "problem"  to  him.     The  main  thought  of  the  poem 
(which  only  makes  the  problem  more  difficult),  that  all  religions,  with  their  oracles, 
litanies,  temples  and  statues,  prophets  and  priests,  spring  from  the  welling-up  of 
the  Divine  Being  in  the  human  soul,  was  a  fundamental  principle  in  Emerson's 
philosophy,  and  finds  frequent  expression.     "We  distinguish  the  announcements  of 
the  soul,  its  manifestations  of  its  own  nature,  by  the  term  Revelation.     These  are 
always  attended  by  the  emotion  of  the  sublime.     For  this  communication  is  an  influx 
of  the  Divine  mind  into  our  mind.     It  is  an  ebb  of  the  individual  rivulet  before  the 
flowing  surges  of  the  sea  of  life.     Every  distinct  apprehension  of  this  central  com 
mandment  agitates  men  with  awe  and  delight.     A  thrill  passes  through  all  men  at 
the  reception  of  new  truth,  or  at  the  performance  of  a  great  action,  which  comes  out 
of  the  heart  of  nature."— "  The  Over-Soul,"  in  Essays,  First  Series.     See  also  "  Art, " 
in  Essays,  First  Series,  and  in  Society  and  Solitude.     Compare  Carlyle,  "Natural 
Supernaturalism "  in  Sartor  Resartus  and  "The  Hero  as  Divinity"  in  Heroes  and 
Hero-Worship. 

(316)  56.  See  Ex.  32:19.  ^  65.  Chrysostom  =  " golden  mouth ";   the  name  was 
given  to  John  of  Antioch,  of  the  fourth  century,  one  of  the  Greek  Fathers  of  the 
Church,  because  of  the  excellence  of  his  homilies,     best  Augustine:    St.  Augustine 
(354-430),   the  greatest   of   the   Latin   Fathers.     If  68.  Taylor:    Jeremy   Taylor 
(1613-67),  a  bishop  in  the  English  Church,  an  eloquent  and  poetic  preacher. 

(316)  WOOD-NOTES,  I.     First  published  in  The  Dial,  October,  1840. 

(317)  43.  a  forest  seer:    the  description  exactly  fits  Thoreau,  but  Emerson  is 
reported  as  saying  that  a  part  of  it  was  written  before  he  knew  Thoreau. 

(318)  83.  the  man  oj  flowers:   Linnaeus  (1707-78),  the  great  Swedish  botanist. 

(320)  THE  SPHINX.  First  published  in  The  Dial,  January,  1841.  For  Emer 
son's  explanation  of  the  meaning  of  the  poem  see  his  Poems,  Centenary  edition,  p. 
412;  the  substance  of  it  is  that  there  is  one  principle  or  essence  through  all  things, 
binding  them  into  an  understandable  unity,  in  which  one  thing  explains  another;  but 


NOTES  591 


that  if  the  mind  does  not  see  this  unifying  principle,  the  universe  becomes  only  a 
confused  mass  of  particulars.  This  is  the  familiar  doctrine  of  the  One  in  the  Many, 
of  Identity  in  Difference,  which  is  the  central  thought  in  Emerson's  philosophy. 
One  of  his  clearest  expressions  of  it  is  in  the  following  passage  in  "The  Over-Soul" 
(Essays,  First  Series) :  "The  Supreme  Critic  on  the  errors  of  the  past  and  the  present, 
and  the  only  prophet  of  that  which  must  be,  is  that  great  nature  in  which  we  rest, 
as  the  earth  lies  in  the  soft  arms  of  the  atmosphere;  that  Unity,  that  Over-Soul, 
within  which  every  man's  particular  being  is  contained  and  made  one  with  all 

other We  live  in  succession,  in  division,  in  parts,  in  particles.     Meantime 

within  man  is  the  soul  of  the  whole;  the  wise  silence;  the  universal  beauty,  to  which 
every  part  and  particle  is  equally  related;  the  eternal  ONE.  And  this  deep  power 
in  which  we  exist,  and  whose  beatitude  is  all  accessible  to  us,  is  not  only  self-sufficing 
and  perfect  in  every  hour,  but  the  act  of  seeing  and  the  thing  seen,  the  seer  and  the 
spectacle,  the  subject  and  the  object,  are  one.  We  see  the  world  piece  by  piece,  as 
the  sun,  the  moon,  the  animal,  the  tree;  but  the  whole,  of  which  these  are  the  shin 
ing  parts,  is  the  soul.  Only  by  the  vision  of  that  Wisdom  can  the  horoscope  of  the 
ages  be  read,  and  by  falling  back  on  our  better  thoughts,  by  yielding  to  the  spirit  of 
prophecy  which  is  innate  in  every  man,  we  can  know  what  it  saith."  The  inter 
relation  of  things  and  the  identity  of  law  throughout  nature  are  set  forth  thus  in 
"Nature"  (Essays,  Second  Series):  "Motion  or  change,  and  identity  or  rest,  are 
the  first  and  second  secrets  of  nature:  Motion  and  Rest.  The  whole  code  of  her 
laws  may  be  written  on  the  thumb-nail  or  the  signet  of  a  ring.  The  whirling  bubble 
on  the  surface  of  a  brook  admits  us  to  the  secret  of  the  mechanics  of  the  sky.  Every 
shell  on  the  beach  is  a  key  to  it.  A  little  water  made  to  rotate  in  a  cup  explains 
the  formation  of  the  simpler  shells;  the  addition  of  matter  from  year  to  year  arrives 
at  last  at  the  most  complex  forms;  and  yet  so  poor  is  Nature  with  all  her  craft  that, 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  universe,  she  has  but  one  stuff — but  one  stuff 
with  its  two  ends,  to  serve  up  all  her  dream-like  variety." 

(321)  12.  D&dalian  =  intricate;    from  "Daedalus,"  the  name  of  the  fabulous 
Greek  artificer  who  made  the  famous  labyrinth  for  King  Minos  of  Crete.     H  17-48- 
These  lines  give  examples  of  the  happy,  self-reliant  existence  of  inanimate  things,  of 
)lants,  of  animals,  of  human  life  before  it  comes  to  self-consciousness,  each  filling 
ts  place  in  the  unified  whole. 

(322)  40-64.  These  lines  give  an  unfavorable  view  of  the  difference  between 
i/ian  and  natural  things.    A  similar  criticism  of  man  in  his  present  state  of  spiritual 
development  is  found  in  "Self-Reliance"  (Essays,  First  Series):   "Let  a  man,  then, 
tcnow  his  worth,  and  keep  things  under  his  feet.     Let  him  not  peep  or  steal  or  skulk 
up  and  down  with  the  air  of  a  charity-boy,  a  bastard,  or  an  interloper,  in  the  world 

•vhich  exists  for  him Man  is  timid  and  apologetic;   he  is  no  longer  upright; 

i.e  dares  not  say,  'I  think,'  'I  am,'  but  quotes  some  saint  or  sage.     He  is  ashamed 
oefore  the  blade  of  grass  or  the  blowing  rose."     But  there  is  another  aspect  of 
the  case,  which  "the  poet"  sees  and  states  in  the  lines  that  follow:    man's  fears 
and  unrest  are  due  fundamentally  to  his  spiritual  superiority,  a  divine  discontent 
with  what  he  has  attained,  and  endless  search  for  the  invisible  ideal.     \  55.  oaf  = 
simpleton.    H  57.  the  great  mother:  Nature.    U  73,  74.  Cf.  Browning's  "Rabbi  Ben 
Ezra"  (1864),  stanzas  2.  3: 


5Q2  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  ?  " 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned,  "Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars: 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends, 
transcends  them  all!" 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears, 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 

Do  I  remonstrate:  folly  wide  the  mark! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and  finite  clods  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

(324)  113.  Cf.  Emerson's  Nature,  Introduction:  "Undoubtedly  we  have  no 
questions  to  ask  which  are  unanswerable.  We  must  trust  the  perfection  of  the 
creation  so  far  as  to  believe  that  whatever  curiosity  the  order  of  things  has  awakened 
in  our  minds  the  order  of  things  can  satisfy  Every  man's  condition  is  a  solution  in 
hieroglyphic  to  those  inquiries  he  would  put.  He  acts  it  as  life  before  he  apprehends 
it  as  truth."  ^  116.  a  lie:  i.e.,  only  a  partial  truth.  H  119.  thou  clothed  eternity: 
in  man  is  the  eternal  soul,  but  wrapped  about  with  the  vestures  of  matter,  space, 
and  time,  which  often  conceal  from  him  the  absolute  truth.  The  following  passage 
from  "The  Over-Soul "  (Essays,  First  Series)  throws  light  on  the  whole  stanza:  "The 
influence  of  the  senses  has,  in  most  men,  overpowered  the  mind  to  that  degree  that 
the  walls  of  time  and  space  have  come  to  look  real  and  insurmountable;  and  to 
speak  with  levity  of  these  limits  is,  in  the  world,  the  sign  of  insanity.  Yet  time  and 

space  are  but  inverse  measures  of  the  force  of  the  soul Before  the  revelations 

of  the  soul,  Time,  Space,  and  Nature  shrink  away.  In  common  speech  we  refer  all 
things  to  time,  as  we  habitually  refer  the  immensely  sundered  stars  to  one  concave 

sphere The  things  we  now  esteem  fixed  shall,  one  by  one,  detach  themselves, 

like  ripe  fruit,  from  our  experience  and  fall.  The  wind  shall  blow  them  none  knows 
whither.  The  landscape,  the  figures,  Boston,  London,  are  facts  as  fugitive  as  any 
institution  past  or  any  whiff  of  mist  or  smoke,  and  so  is  society,  and  so  is  the  world. 
The  soul  looketh  steadily  forwards,  creating  a  world  before  her,  leaving  worlds  behind 
her.  She  has  no  dates,  nor  rites,  nor  persons,  nor  specialties,  nor  men.  The 
soul  knows  only  the  soul;  the  web  of  events  is  the  flowing  robe  in  which  she  is 
clothed."  U  131,  132.  Cf.  Tennyson's  lines  (1869): 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 
«  I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all. 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

(324)  THE  SNOW-STORM.     First  published  in  The  Dial,  January,  1841. 

(325)  1 8.  Parian:    Parian  marble  (from  Paros,  an  island  in  the  /Egean  Sea) 
is  noted  for  its  whiteness. 

(325)  FORBEARANCE.  First  published  in  The  Dial,  January,  1842.  The 
poet's  son,  Edward  W.  Emerson,  thinks  it  likely  that  in  'these  lines  Emerson  had 
Thoreau  in  mind. 


NOTES 593 

(325)  DAYS.  First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  November,  1857,  from 
which  the  text  is  here  taken — except  for  "or"  (1.  6),  which  was  changed  to  "and" 
in  1867.     Emerson  thought  it  perhaps  his  best  poem.     \  7.  pleached=  interwoven; 
the  suggestion  here  is  of  tree-tops  or  vines  interwoven  and  making  a  shade,     pomp  = 
procession. 

(326)  BRAHMA.     The  text  is  from  the  1867  edition.     First  published  in  The 
Atlantic  Monthly,  November,  1857.  The  poem  sprang  from  Emerson's  reading  in 
the  Oriental  sacred  books.     H  1-4.  Cf.  the  following:    "These  finite  bodies  have 

been  said  to  belong  to  an  eternal,  indestructible,   and    infinite  spirit He 

who  believes  that  this  spirit  can  kill,  and  he  who  thinks  that  it  can  be  killed,  both 
of  these  are  wrong,  in  judgment.     It  neither  kills  nor  is  killed.     It  is  not  born  nor 
dies  at  any  time.     It  has  had  no  origin,  nor  will  it  ever  have  an  origin.     Unborn, 
changeless,  eternal  both  as  to  future  and  past  time,  it  is  not  slain  when  the  body  is 
killed."— Bhagavad-Gita,  chap,  ii,  J.  C.  Thomson's  translation   (1855).     \  9-12. 
Cf.  the  following:   "And  this  deep  power  in  which  we  exist,  and  whose  beatitude  is 
all  accessible  to  us,  is  not  only  self-sufficing  and  perfect  in  every  hour,  but  the  act  of 
seeing  and  the  thing  seen,  the  seer  and  the  spectacle,  the  subject  and  the  object, 
are  one." — "The  Over-Soul,"  in  Essays,  First  Series.     "If  I  take  the  wings  of  the 
morning,  and  dwell  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea,  even  there  shall  thy  hand 
lead  me,  and  thy  right  hand  shall  hold  me." — Ps.  139:9,  10.     "For  in  him  we  live 
and  move  and  have  our  being."— Acts  17:28.     "I  [Brahma]  am  the  origin  of  all 

gods I  am  the  soul  ....  which  exists  in  the  heart  of  all  beings,  and  I  am 

the  beginning  and  the  middle  and  also  the  end  of  existing  things Among 

th>  inferior  gods  I  am  Vasava I  am  also  eternal  time.     I  am  the  preserver 

who  watches  in  all  directions.     And  I  am  Death,  who  seizes  all,  and  the  Birth  of 

those  who  are  to  be I  am  the  Vrihatsdman  among  the  hymns." — Bhagavad- 

GUli,  chap.  x.     ^  13.  The  strong  gods:  the  Trinity  of  the  earliest  Hindu  mythology 
— Indra,  god  of  the  sky,  Agni,  god  of  fire,  Yama,  god  of  death.     If  14.  sacred  Seven: 
the  highest  among  the  saints.     U  16.  Cf.  Bhagavad-Gitd,  chap,  xviii:   "Abandoning 
all  religious  duties,  seek  me  as  thy  refuge.     I  will  deliver  thee  from  all  sin.     Be 
not  anxious."     Cf.  also  "The  Sphinx,"  11.  85-88  (p.  323). 

(326)  VOLUNTARIES.     Section  3.  The  text  is  from  the  1867  edition.     First 
published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  October,  1863. 

(327)  TERMINUS     The  text  is  from  the  1867  edition.     \  ax.  fault:  i.e.,  in 
default. 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"If  we  could  forget  that  Almighty  God  has  made  us  a  revelation,  and  by  faith 
solved  for  us  the  problem  of  man  and  the  universe,  ....  we  should  greet  these 
poems  with  a  warm  and  cordial  welcome,  and  saving  the  mere  mechanism  of  verse- 
making,  in  which  they  are  sometimes  defective,  assign  them  the  highest  rank  among 
our  American  attempts  at  poetry.  The  author  is  no  every -day  man;  indeed,  he  is 
one  of  the  most  gifted  of  our  countrymen,  and  is  largely  endowed  with  the  true  poetic 
temperament  and  genius.  He  has  a  rich  and  fervid  imagination,  a  refined  taste, 
exquisite  sensibility,  a  strong  and  acute  intellect,  and  a  warm  and  loving  heart. 
He  is  earnest  and  solemn,  and,  taking  his  own  point  of  view,  a  man  of  high  and 
noble  aims But  the  palm  of  excellence,  even  under  the  relation  of  art 


594  AMERICAN  POEMS 


belongs  not  to  poetry  which  chants  falsehood  and  evil.  The  poet  is  an  artist,  and 
the  aim  of  the  artist  is  to  realize  or  embody  the  beautiful;  but  the  beautiful  is  never 
separable  from  the  true  and  the  good.  Truth,  goodness,  beauty  are  only  three 

phases  of  one  and  the  same  thing Mr.  Emerson's  poems,  therefore,  fail  in 

all  the  higher  requisites  of  art.     They  embody  a  doctrine  essentially  false,  a  morality 

essentially  unsound,  and  at  best  a  beauty  which  is  partial,   individual 

His  volume  of  poems  is  the  saddest  book  we  ever  read.  The  author  tries  to  cheer 
up,  tries  to  smile,  but  the  smile  is  cold  and  transitory;  it  plays  an  instant  round  the 

mouth,  but  does  not  come  from  the  heart  or  lighten  the  eyes There  is  an 

appearance  of  calm,  of  quiet,  of  repose  .  .  .  .  ;  but  it  is  the  calm,  the  quiet,  the 
repose  of  despair.  Down  below  are  the  troubled  waters.  The  world  is  no  joyous 
world  for  him.  It  is  void  and  without  form,  and  darkness  broods  over  it." — Brown- 
son's  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1847. 

"  He  is  a  chartered  libertine,  who  has  long  exercised  his  prerogative  of  writ 
ing  enigmas  both  in  prose  and  verse,  sometimes  with  meaning  in  them  and 
sometimes  without — more  frequently  without.  Many  of  his  fragments  in  verse — 
if  verse  it  can  be  called  which  puts  at  defiance  all  the  laws  of  rhythm,  metre, 
grammar,  and  common  sense — were  originally  published  in  'The  Dial,'  lucus 
a  non  lucendo,  a  strange  periodical  work,  which  is  now  withdrawn  from  sunlight 

into  the  utter  darkness  that  it  always  coveted It  is  only  in  his  prose 

that  Mr.  Emerson  is  a  poet;  this  volume  of  professed  poetry  contains  the  most 
prosaic  and  unintelligible  stuff  that  it  has  ever  been  our  fortune  to  encounter. 
....  As  original  in  his  choice  of  subjects  as  in  his  mode  of  treating  them,  Mr. 
Emerson  has  some  dainty  lines  addressed  to  the  humble-bee.  We  can  quote 
only  the  two  concluding  stanzas,  which  show  the  minuteness  and  delicacy  of  the 

poet's  observation  of  nature We  mean  to  be  fair  with  the  poet.     Having 

read  attentively — horresco  referensl — the  whole  book,  we  affirm  that  the  specimens 
now  laid  before  our  readers  fairly  represent  far  the  larger  portion  of  it.  Here  and 
there  a  gleam  of  light  intrudes,  and  we  find  brief  but  striking  indications  of  the 
talent  and  feeling  which  Mr.  Emerson  unquestionably  possesses.  But  the  effect 
is  almost  instantly  marred  by  some  mystical  nonsense,  some  silly  pedantry,  an 
intolerable  hitch  in  rhythm  or  grammar,  or  an  incredible  flatness  and  meanness  of 
expression." — The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  May,  1847. 

"His  converse  with   creation  is  intimate  and  endearing He   seems 

(particularly  in  his  'Woodnotes')  an  inspired  tree,  his  veins  full  of  sap  instead  of 
blood;  and  you  take  up  his  volume  of  poems,  clad  as  it  is  in  green,  and  smell  to 

it  as  to  a  fresh  leaf The  sounds — how  manifold — of  the  American  forest 

say  to  his  purged  ear  what  they  say  to  few  others,  and  what  even  his  language  is 

unable  fully  to  express In  calling  him  the  truest  poet  of  America  we  are 

not  forgetful  of  the  claims  of  Longfellow But  in  two  points  we  deem  Emer 
son  superior  to  Longfellow — in  originality  and  in  nationality — two  points  which, 

indeed,  run  into  one.     Longfellow  is  rather  a  German  than  an  American 

Emerson,  on  the  contrary,  has  grafted  his  Germanism  upon  a  strong  gnarled  trunk 
of  aboriginal  power;  and  his  mind  is  often  intuitive  into  principles,  as  well  as  fer 
menting  with  golden  imagery." — George  Gilfillan,  in  Tail's  Magazine,  January, 
1848. 


NOTES  595 


"Of  hardly  any  other  living  American  author  can  it  be  so  confidently  assumed 

that  he  will  hold  a  place  among  the  universal  classics Mr.  Emerson's 

inspiration  comes  from  ideas  rather  than  from  actual  life.  There  is  nothing  in  it  of 
a  dramatical  or  lyrical  quality.  The  emotions  and  interests  of  individuals  do  not 
appeal  to  him  in  such  a  manner  as  to  lead  him  to  seek  to  give  expression  to  them  in 
his  poetry.  None  of  his  poems  are,  in  a  proper  sense,  studies  of  character;  none  of 
them  are  narrative  or  have  to  do  with  events  and  stories.  They  are,  consequently, 
not  poems  of  delight  so  much  as  poems  of  invigoration.  It  is  not  men  but  man  with 
which  they  are  concerned;  not  human  nature  but  Nature,  the  mother  of  us  all,  whom 
the  poet  has  studied,  and  whose  aspects  and  influences  he  reproduces  in  his  poems. 
....  It  is  perhaps  due  in  part  to  the  absence  from  Mr.  Emerson's  genius  of  any 
controlling  aesthetic  element  that  he  not  infrequently  indulges  himself  in  mysticism 
and  makes  his  verses  puzzles  and  enigmas,  not  only  to  the  common  reader,  but  even 
to  the  trained  student  of  poetry.  'Brahma,'  which  excited  so  much  cheap  amuse 
ment  and  wonder  when  it  first  appeared,  some  years  ago,  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
was  not,  indeed,  one  of  these  riddles,  but  is  plain  and  intelligible  as  an  expression  of 
Hindu  pantheism.  It  is  a  sign  of  the  change  brought  about  by  years  that  there 
is  far  less  of  this  obscurity  in  the  new  volume  than  in  the  old.  But  Mr.  Emerson  is, 
however,  still  careless  about  the  shape  in  which  his  thought  embodies  itself,  and 
fails  to  guard  his  poetry  against  the  attacks  of  time  by  casting  his  poems  in 
perfect  and  imperishable  forms.  If  there  be  much  of  the  Greek  philosopher  in  his 
composition,  there  is  very  little  of  the  Greek  artist.  Many  far  inferior  poets  have 
a  freer  gift  of  melody  and  a  keener  sense  of  harmony,  order,  and  proportion.  The 
music  of  his  verse  is  rarely  long  sustained,  and  he  does  injustice  to  his  own  culture 

by  not  infrequent  neglect  of  rhythm  and  of  rhyme In  the  best  sense  Mr. 

Emerson  is  a  moral  poet;  he  writes,  not  to  draw  a  moral,  but  because  he  is  possessed 
with  a  moral  sentiment  which  he  can  best  express  in  poetry.  He  is  the  utterer  of  the 
moral  ideas  by  which  the  hearts  of  his  generation  are  moved." — The  Nation,  May 
30,  1867. 

"I  can't  imagine  any  better  luck  befalling  these  States  for  a  poetical  beginning 
and  initiation  than  has  come  from  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Bryant,  and  Whittier. 
Emerson,  to  me,  stands  unmistakably  at  the  head,  but  for  the  others  I  am  at  a  loss 
where  to  give  any  precedence.  Each  illustrious,  each  rounded,  each  distinctive. 
Emerson  for  his  sweet,  vital-tasting  melody,  rhym'd  philosophy,  and  poems  as 
amber-clear  as  the  honey  of  the  wild  bee  he  loves  to  sing." — Walt  Whitman,  Speci 
men  Days,  April  16,  1881. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

The  text,  with  the  exceptions  noted,  is  from  the  1857  edition. 

(328)  MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA.  First  published  in  The  Liberator,  January 
27,  1843.  "Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citizens  of 
Norfolk,  Va.,  in  reference  to  George  Latimer,  the  alleged  fugitive  slave." — Whittier. 
On  October  19,  1842,  Latimer  was  imprisoned  in  Boston,  on  the  request  of  James  B. 
Gray  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  his  alleged  owner,  who  accused  him  of  being  a  runaway  slave 
and  of  stealing.  He  lay  in  prison  for  nearly  a  month,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  anti- 
slavery  leaders  to  procure  his  release  and  of  his  owner  to  get  possession  of  him 


596  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  case  aroused  intense  excitement,  and  public  meetings  were  held  in  Boston  and 
Norfolk  to  protest  against  what  each  side  considered  an  infringement  of  rights. 
Finally,  on  November  17,  the  sheriff  ordered  the  jailer  to  release  Latimer  the  next 
day;  but  his  friends,  fearing  he  might  be  rearrested,  compromised  the  matter  that 
night  by  buying  his  freedom  of  Mr.  Gray  for  $400.  The  Abolitionists  were  not 
content,  however,  to  stop  here.  They  called  for  signatures  to  a  petition  to  the 
Massachusetts  legislature,  praying  that  it  would  forbid  officers  to  assist  in  arresting 
fugitive  slaves,  deny  the  use  of  jails  for  the  detention  of  slaves,  and  propose  such 
amendments  to  the  United  States  Constitution  as  should  "forever  separate  the 
people  of  Massachusetts  from  all  connection  with  slavery."  Conventions  in  every 
county  were  called  for  January  2,  to  elect  delegates  to  present  this  petition  to  the 
legislature;  Whittier's  poem  was  read  at  the  Essex  County  convention,  in  Ipswich, 
and  evoked  tremendous  enthusiasm.  H  13.  St.  George's  bank:  a  shoal  frequented 
by  fishermen,  about  a  hundred  miles  off  Cape  Cod.  H  26.  Fanueil  Hall:  a  hall  in 
Boston,  where  public  meetings  were  held.  H  27,  28.  An  allusion  to  Patrick  Henry's 
famous  speech,  ending  with  "  Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death,"  which  was  delivered 
to  the  Virginia  convention  on  March  28,  i?75- 

(329)  29.  Old  Dominion:    an  early  name  for  Virginia  as  the  oldest  English 
colony  in  America.     U  57.  Cf.  Isaiah  6:6,  7:  "Then  flew  one  of  the  seraphims  unto 
me,  having  a  live  coal  in  his  hand,  which  he  had  taken  with  the  tongs  from  off  the 
altar:    and  he  laid  it  upon  my  mouth,  and  said,  Lo,  this  hath  touched  thy  lips; 
and  thine  iniquity  is  taken  away,  and  thy  sin  purged." 

(330)  67.  Essex:   one  of  the  most  populous  of  the  counties  of  Massachusetts, 
containing  the  manufacturing  towns  of  Lawrence,  Haverhill  (Whittier's  birthplace) 
Lynn,    etc.     H  69,    70.  Middlesex  ....  Lexington:     Lexington   is   in    Middlesex 
County.     H  71.  Norfolk's  ancient  villages:    Norfolk  County,  south  of  Boston,  was 
settled  early  and  contains  many  old  towns.     Plymouth's  rocky  bound:  the  reference 
is  to  Plymouth  County.     If  72.  Nantucket:    the  island  of  Nantucket  is  also  the 
county  of  Nantucket.     \  73.  rich  and  rural  Worcester:   Worcester  County,  in  the 
fertile  central  part  of  the  state.     \  75.  Wachuset's:   Mount  Wachuset,  some  2,000 
feet  high,  in  the  northern  part  of  the  county.     H  77-  sandy  Barnstable:   Barnstable 
County  comprises  Cape  Cod.     ^  78.  Bristol:    Bristol  County  borders  for  a  short 
distance  on  Narragansett  Bay.     U  79-  Hampden:    Hampden  County  lies  on  both 
sides  of  the  Connecticut  River.     H  80.  Hampshire's:  with  this  reference  to  Hamp 
shire  County  the  poet  concludes  a  roll-call  of  all  the  counties  in  the  state  except 
Franklin  and  Dukes;   Suffolk  County,  however,  is  represented  only  by  a  reference 
to  its  capital,  Boston;   and  Berkshire  County  is  mentioned  in  a  different  relation 
from  the  rest. 

(331)  PROEM.     Prefixed  to  a  volume  of  Whittier's  poems  in  1849. 

(332)  ICHABOD.     First  published  in  The  National  Era,  May  2,  1850.     "Icha- 
bod,"  a  Hebrew  word,  means  "inglorious,"  or  "reft  of  glory";    cf.  I  Sam.  4:21: 
"And  she  named  the  child  Ichabod,  saying,  The  glory  is  departed  from  Israel." 
The  poem  refers  to  Daniel  Webster,  and  was  occasioned,  Whittier  said,  by  Webster's 
speech  in  the  Senate,  on  March  7,  1850,  in  which  he  supported  the  Omnibus  Bill  or 
Compromise  of  1850;  the  bill  included  a  provision  for  a  fugitive-slave  law,  requiring 
free  states  to  return  fugitive  slaves  to  their  owners,  and  Webster  was  accused  of 


NOTES  597 


"selling  out  to  the  South  "  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  nomination  for  the  presidency.  A 
milder  and  juster  view  of  his  motives  now  prevails;  and  Whittier  himself,  thirty 
years  later,  wrote  of  the  dead  statesman  in  kinder  vein  in  "The  Lost  Occasion." 

(333)  35,  36.  Cf.  Gen.  9:23:  "And  Shem  and  Japheth  took  a  garment,  and 
laid  it  upon  both  their  shoulders,  and  went  backward,  and  covered  the  nakedness 
of  their  father." 

(333)  WORDSWORTH.    First  published  in  The  National  Era,  June,  1851.     H  15. 
16.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  "A  Poet's  Epitaph,"  11.  39,  40: 

He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

H  17.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  "She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways,"  11.  5,  6: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye. 

H  18.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  "Peter  Bell,"  Part  First,  11.  58-60: 

A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more. 

H  19.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  "I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud." 

(334)  SUMMER    BY   THE   LAKESIDE.     First   published   in   The   National  Era, 
September,  1853.     The  lake  is  Lake  Winnipesaukee,  in  New  Hampshire. 

(334)  Noon. 

(335)  29.  nepenthe:  "  A  drug  used  by  the  ancients  to  give  relief  from  pain  and 
sorrow"  by  some  supposed  to  have  been  opium  or  hasheesh;  hence,  anything  sooth 
ing  and  comforting." — Webster* 's  International  Dictionary.     (From  Greek  1/77,  "not"; 
Tr^tfos,  "sorrow.")    U  30.  lotus-flowers:  "lotus"  is  a  general  name  for  several  kinds 
of  water-lilies,  and  the  lilies  floating  on  the  lake  may  well  have  suggested  to  the  poet 
the  ancient  lotus-flower,  the  eating  of  which  brought  forgetfulness  of  one's  country 
and  kin  and  induced  a  dreamy  love  of  ease  (see  theOdyssey,  ix,  83-97,  and  Tenny 
son's  "Lotus- Eaters");   the  fabulous  lotus,  however,  was  probably  the  blossom  of 
a  tree. 

(337)  MAUD  MTJLLER.  First  published  in  The  National  Era,  December,  1854. 
Whittier  said  that  the  poem  was  not  founded  on  fact,  but  that  a  hint  for  it  may  have 
been  given  by  his  memory  of  a  beautiful  country  girl  whom  he  and  his  sister  talked 
with  under  an  apple-tree,  in  a  hay-field,  one  summer,  and  who  blushed  and  tried  to 
hide  her  bare  feet  by  covering  them  with  hay. 

(341)  94.  an  astral:  a  kind  of  lamp  so  constructed  that  it  casts  no  shadow. 
Tf  95.  chimney  lug:  a  pole  on  which  a  kettle  is  hung  over  the  fire.  H  109,  no.  Cf. 
Matt.  28:2;  Mark  16:3. 

(344)  SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE.  The  text  is  from  the  1860  edition.  First 
published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  December,  1857;  the  use  of  dialect  in  the  refrain 
was  suggested  by  Lowell,  then  editor  of  the  magazine.  Whittier  said  that  the 
poem  was  based  on  a  fragment  of  an  old  rhyme  which  was  recited  to  him  by  a 
schoolmate  from  Marblehead,  and  that  the  details  of  the  narrative  were  imaginary; 
in  Roads's  history  of  Marblehead  it  is  affirmed  that  the  crew,  and  not  the  skipper, 
were  to  blame  for  refusing  to  aid  the  sinking  ship.  _1  3.  Apuleius's  Golden  Asr: 


598  AMERICAN  POEMS 


The  Golden  Ass,  by  Apuleius,  is  a  Latin  romance  of  the  second  century  A.D.,  in  which 
the  central  figure,  Lucius,  is  turned  by  witchcraft  into  an  ass;  the  title  seems  to 
have  misled  Whittier,  for  it  is  the  romance,  not  the  ass,  that  is  called  golden.  U  4. 
horse  of  brass:  in  Arabian  Nights'  Tales,  "The  Story  of  the  Third  Royal  Mendicant;" 
the  mendicant,  or  "calender,"  tells  of  a  horse  of  brass  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain 
of  loadstone  in  a  strange  sea.  H  6.  Al-Bordk:  a  steed  with  a  human  face,  the  cheeks 
of  a  horse,  and  eagle's  wings,  on  which  Mahomet,  according  to  legend,  made  a 
journey  through  the  air  to  Jerusalem  and  back;  the  name  means  "the  lightning." 

(345)  30.  Maenads:   a  term  used  of  the  frenzied  female  worshipers  of  Bacchus 
(from  Greek  /j.alvofjMi,   "to  rage").     If  35.  Chaleur  Bay:    a  bay  opening  off  the 
Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence. 

(346)  TELLING  THE  BEES.     The  text  is  from  the  1860  edition.     First  published 
in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1858.     It  was  an  old  custom,  when  a  member  of  the 
family  died,  to  tell  the  bees  and  drape  the  hives  with  black;    this  was  believed  to 
prevent  the  swarm  from  leaving  the  stricken  home.     The  topography  of  the  poem, 
even  in  minor  details,  is  that  of  the  poet's  birthplace. 

(348)  MY  PLAYMATE.  The  text  is  from  the  1860  edition.  First  published  in 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1860. 

(350)  59.  veeries  =  thrushes. 

(350)  BARBARA  FRIETCHIE.  The  text  is  from  the  1865  edition.  First  pub 
lished  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  October,  1863.  Whittier  said  that  the  poem  was 
based  upon  what  he  considered  at  the  time  as  trustworthy  sources;  but  he  admitted, 
in  the  light  of  later  testimony,  that  it  was  probably  not  correct  in  some  details. 
The  facts  seem  to  be  that  there  was  an  old  woman,  named  Barbara  Frietchie,  living 
in  Frederick  at  the  time  of  Stonewall  Jackson's  entry,  in  1862;  that  she  drove  the 
Confederate  troops  from  her  dooryard,  shaking  her  cane  in  their  faces;  that  when 
the  Union  forces  entered  the  town,  soon  after,  she  waved  her  cherished  flag;  thai 
May  Quantrell,  in  the  same  town  and  at  the  same  time,  waved  her  flag  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  Confederate  soldiers.  The  report  on  which  Whittier  founded  his  poem 
apparently  fused  these  two  heroines  into  one.  A  far  more  serious  error  is  the  por 
trait  of  Stonewall  Jackson,  who  believed  most  fervently  that  the  South  was  in  the 
right  and  who  fought  against  the  Union  with  a  clear  conscience;  for  a  true  picture  of 
him  see  p.  508  and  Sidney  Lanier's  poem,  "The  Dying  Words  of  Stonewall  Jackson." 

(352)  52.  Jackson  was  killed  by  his  own  men,  when  he  was  returning  from 
outside  the  lines,  in  May,  1863. 

(352)  ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT.     The  text  is  from  the  1867  edition.     First  pub 
lished  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1866.     The  poem  is  based  on  a  real  incident  of 
the  "Dark  Day,"  in  New  England,  on  May  19,  1780.     \  15.  Norland  =  Northland. 
sagas:  Scandinavian  myths  or  legends;  the  word  is  Icelandic,  and  is  akin  to  English 
"saw"  =  "saying." 

(353)  1 6.  The  Twilight  of  the  Gods:  Northern  mythology  foretold  a  time  when 
the  whole  universe,  including  the  gods  and  their  habitation,  would  be  destroyed  by 
fire,  the  stars  would  fall,  and  the  sun  grow  dim;  this  time  was  called  Ragnarok,  the 
Twilight  of  the  Gods.     ^  41.  occupy  till  he  come:   cf.  Luke  19:33:    "And  he  called 
his  ten  servants,  and  delivered  them  ten  pounds,  and  said  unto  them,  Occupy  till 
I  come-" 


NOTES  599 


(354)  SNOW-BOUND.    The  text  is  from  the  first  edition,  in  1866;  a  comparison 
with  the  later  text  will  show  several  interesting  variations.     In  the  first  edition,  as 
in  later  editions,  the  poem  is  prefaced  by  the  first  nine  lines  of  Emerson's  "Snow- 
Storm"  (see  p.  324)  and  by  the  following  quotation:   "As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness 
be  stronger  in  the  dark,  so  Good  Spirits,  which  be  Angels  of  Light,  are  augmented, 
not  only  by  the  Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but  also  by  our  common  Wood  Fire:  and  as 
the  celestial  Fire  drives  away  dark  spirits,  so  also  this  our  Fire  of  Wood  doth  the 
same."— Cor.  Agrippa,  Occult  Philosophy,  Book  I,  chap.  v.     U  15-18.  The  poet's 
birthplace,  the  scene  of  the  poem,  is  some  ten  miles  from  the  coast,  which  lies  directly 
east.     H  22.  herd' 's-gr ass:  a  species  of  grass  especially  good  for  hay. 

(355)  65.  Pisa's  leaning  miracle:    the  leaning  tower  at  Pisa,  Italy,   which 
leans  13  feet  out  of  the  perpendicular  in  a  height  of  179  feet. 

(356)  90.  Amun:    an   Egyptian   god,   often   represented   as  a   ram.     If  no. 
minded  =  marked,  noted. 

(358)  156.  clean-winged:    swept  clean  with  a  bird's  wing;    the  turkey's  wing 
was  commonly  used  for  this  purpose.     H  183.  brother:  Matthew  Whittier,  the  poet's 
only  brother,  five  years  his  junior;  he  died  in  1883,  nine  years  before  the  poet. 

(359)  200-202.  Cf.  "Summer  by  the  Lakeside,"  Noon,  11.  46-51   (p.  334). 
U  215.  The  line  is  quoted,  with  the  change  of  the  first  word  from  "A"  to  "The," 
from  "The  African  Chief,"  a  poem  by  a  Mrs.  Morton,  which  was  printed  in  a  school 
"reader";   in  later  editions  Whittier  corrected  his  error  of  attributing  the  poem  to 
Mrs.  Mercy  Warren,  a  writer  of  the  Revolutionary  times.     Lines  220-23  are  the 
fourth  stanza  of  the  poem.     H  225.  Memphremagog's:    Lake  Memphremagog  lies 
partly  in  Vermont  and  partly  in  Canada.     ^  226.  samp:    boiled  maize,  usually 
eaten  with  milk.     H  229.  St.  Francois':  St.  Francois  is  an  outlet  of  Lake  Memphre 
magog,   running  into  the  St.   Lawrence  River.     U  231.  Norman:    many  of  the 
French  Canadians  came  originally  from   Normandy  and  other  rural  districts  of 
France. 

(360)  256-61.  Whittier's  mother  was  a  native  of  the  region  in  southern  New 
Hampshire  here  referred  to,  and  had  heard  these  tales  of  Indian  horrors  from  her 
ancestors. 

(361)  286.  Seven's  ancient  tome:   The  History  of  the  Rise,  Increase,  and  Progress 
of  the  Christian  People  Called  Quakers,  published  in  1722.     H  298.  Chakley's  Journal: 
Whittier  quoted  a  passage  from  the  Journal,  including  the  following:  "To  stop  their 
murmuring  I  told  them  they  should  not  need  to  cast  lots,  ....  for  I  would  freely 
offer  up  my  life  to  do  them  good.     One  said,  'God  bless  you!  I  will  not  eat  any  of 
you.'  ....  As  I  was  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  ....  a  very  large  dolphin 
came  up  towards  the  top  or  surface  of  the  water,  and  looked  me  in  the  face;  and  1 
called  the  people  to  put  a  hook  into  the  sea  and  take  him,  '  For  here  is  one  come  to 
redeem  me,'  I  said  to  them.     And  they  put  a  hook  into  the  sea,  and  the  fish  readily 

took  it  and  they  caught  him.     He  was  longer  than  myself This  plainly 

showed  us  that  we  ought  not  to  distrust  the  providence  of  the  Almighty." 

(362)  320.  Apollonius:    a   Pythagorean   philosopher   and   wonder-worker   of 
the  first  century  A.D.,  reputed  to  know  all  languages  without  having  learned  them. 
U  322.  Hermes:   Thoth,  the  Egyptian  god  of  wisdom,  whom  the  Greeks  identified 
with  Hermes.     U  332.  White  of  Selborne's:    Gilbert  White,   curate  of   Selborne. 


6oo  AMERICAN  POEMS 


England,  made  a  minute  study  of  the  natural  history  of  his  little  parish  and  pub 
lished  a  book  on  it  in  1789. 

(363)  378.  our  elder  sister:   Mary  Whittier,  who  encouraged  the  poet's  literary 
ambitions  in  his  early  years,  even  sending  one  of  his  poems  secretly  to  a  local  news 
paper;  she  had  died  in  1860.     ^  396.  Our  youngest  and  dearest:  Elizabeth  Whittier, 
eight  years  the  poet's  junior;   they  had  lived  together  in  closest  intimacy  until  her 
death  in  1864;  she  was  herself  a  writer  of  graceful  verse,  and  some  of  her  poems  are 
printed  in  Whittier's  works. 

(364)  412.  to  seek:   to  be  taken  with  "too  frail  and  weak." 

(365)  456.  long  vacation's  reach:   the  long  vacation  in  the  college  year  at  that 
time  was  in  winter,  partly  for  the  convenience  of  poor  students,  who  could  thus 
teach  school  during  the  winter.     H  476.  Pindus-born  Araxes:   Pindus  is  the  moun 
tain  range  between  Epirus  and  Thessaly;    the  Araxes  does  not  rise  there,  but  is 
much  farther  east,  flowing  into  the  Caspian  Sea;    Whittier  was  thinking  of  the 
Aracthus,  as  later  editions  show. 

(366)  510.  Another  guest:    Whittier  said  that  she   was  Harriet  Livermore, 
daughter  of  a  New  Hampshire  judge,  a  high-strung,  eccentric  woman  then  living 
within  two  miles  of  the  Whittier  farm;  she  became  a  believer  in  the  near  coming  of 
Christ,  and  preached  the  doctrine  for  many  years  in  Europe  and  Asia,  in  her  crazy 
old  age  wandering  with  a  tribe  of  Arabs  as  their  prophetess. 

(367)  536.  Petruchio's  Kate:   the  shrew  in  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  whom  her 
husband,    Petruchio,    subdued   by   heroic   treatment,     fl  537.  Siena's   saint:     St. 
Catherine,  of  Siena,  Italy,  who  had  frequent  rapturous  swoonings  and  visions. 
II  555-  Queen  of  Lebanon:   Lady  Hester  Stanhope,  who  awaited  Christ's  coming  on 
Mt.  Lebanon,  expecting,  to  ride  into  Jerusalem  with  him. 

(371)  683.  Ell-wood's:   Thomas  Ellwood,  a  Quaker,  the  friend  of  Milton  in 
the  blind  poet's  last  years,  was  the  author  of  a  dull  epic  on  David.     1f  687-714. 
Cf.  Cowper's  Task,  Book  IV.     H  693.  Creeks:   in  1821-22  the  Creek  Indians  were 
in  a  struggle  with  the  government  of  Georgia  over  the  retention  of  their  lands. 
H  694.  daft  McGregor:    a  Scotch  adventurer  in  Central  and  South  America;    in 
1817  he  took  possession  of  a  Spanish  island  off  the  coast  of  Florida.     In  1821-22  he 
was  busy  with  a  scheme  to  colonize  a  part  of  the  coast  of  Costa  Rica,  and  this  fact 
is  alluded  to  in  the  revised  form  of  1.  695.     K  696.  Taygetos:   a  mountain  range  in 
southern  Greece.     ^  697.  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks:   Demetrios  Ypsilanti,  one  of 
the  leaders  in  the  Greek  war  of  independence,  won  a  complete  victory  over  the  Turks, 
in  August,  1822.     The  Mainotes  were  a  tribe  of  Greeks  in  the  Peloponnesus.     \  719. 
palimpsest:  a  palimpsest  is  a  parchment  on  which  the  first  writing  has  been  erased 
and  a  second  written  over  it. 

(372)  739.  The  century's  aloe:  the  American  aloe,  or  century  plant,  is  popularly 
supposed  to  flower  at  the  end  of  a  hundred  years,  although  the  period  really  varies 
from  ten  to  seventy  years  according  to  conditions;   it  produces  one  gigantic  flower 
and  then  dies.     11  741.  Truce  of  God:  during  the  Middle  Ages  the  practice  obtained 
of  suspending  hostilities  during  the  more  important  festivals  and  fasts  of  the  Church , 
Christmas,  Lent,  etc.,  and  such  a  truce  was  called  a  Truce  of  God.     1f  747.  Flemish 
pictures:  the  Flemish  painters  are  famous  for  their  lifelike  pictures  of  humble  home- 
scenes. 

(373)  Tins  ETERNAJL  GOODNESS.    The  text  is  from  the  1867  edition. 


NOTES  601 


CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"In  considering  Whittier's  merits  as  an  author  it  is  quite  manifest  that  we 
should  mention  first  his  intensity— that  vivid  force  of  thought  and  expression  which 
distinguishes  his  writings.  His  verses  sometimes  bear  marks  of  extreme  haste,  but 
the  imperfections  which  would  result  from  this  cause  are  in  a  great  measure  obviated 

by  the  strength  and  simplicity  of  his  conceptions The  natural  vehemence 

of  Whittier's  poetry  has  at  times  run  into  declamatory  excess.  This  failing  is  discover 
able  principally  in  his  earlier  verses  upon  political  and  reformatory  subjects,  written 
while  his  judgment  was  still  immature,  and  unduly  influenced  by  his  passions.  .... 
The  free  and  dextrous  use  of  proper  names  is  another  characteristic  of  our  poet. 
With  an  affluence  of  these  his  extensive  knowledge  supplies  him,  and  he  displays 
uncommon  skill  in  weaving  them  harmoniously  into  his  verse As  a  conse 
quence  of  the  seeming  haste  in  which  many  of  these  poems  are  written,  the  author 
is  betrayed  into  occasional  inaccuracies  of  grammar  and  rhyme.  Many  of  these, 
which  we  had  observed  in  his  earlier  volumes,  we  are  glad  to  see  corrected  in  the 
revised  collection.  But  some  still  remain We  have  noticed  several  inad 
missible  rhymes — 'dawn'  with  'scorn,'  'curse'  with  'us,'  'war'  with  'saw'  and 

'draw,'  etc Whittier  is  a  writer  whose  sentiments  are  thoroughly  American 

— not  that  he  is  always  in  harmony  with  the  prevalent  opinion  of  his  countrymen, 
but  that  his  productions  are  deeply  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  our  institutions.  They 
contain  the  genuine  American  doctrines  of  freedom  and  humanity,  brought  up  to 
the  latest  and  highest  standard.  His  unmeasured  sympathy  for  his  kind  has  led 
him  into  a  field  new  and  entirely  his  own,  and  given  him  an  unquestionable  title 
to  the  name  of  an  original  author." — The  North  American  Review,  July,  1854. 

"His  place  is  as  determined  and  distinctive  as  that  of  any  of  our  acknowledged 
poets.  Our  literature  well  knows  his  clarion  call — a  call  that  sweetens  and  saddens, 
too,  into  most  pensive  music In  none  of  our  poetry  is  there  greater  natural 
ness  than  in  Whittier's.  Every  tone  is  equally  fresh  and  earnest,  whether  it  be 
fiery  indignation  and  scorn  at  wrong,  or  the  whisper  of  contemplative  sadness  over 

early  memories  .and  lovely  scenes Many  of  his  abolition  poems  are  superb 

specimens  of  poetic  indignation.  Probably  in  all  literary  history  there  was  never 

so  much  good  poetry  written  by  a  single  man  in  a  single  cause Except  that 

'been'  is  made  to  rhyme  with  'again'  and  'pen,'  and  that  a  New  England  country 
girl  would  hardly  think  of  being  toasted  at  the  wine,  this  ["Maud  Muller"]  is  a 
perfect  poem.  The  New  England  character  is  given  to  it  by  the  fewest  but  most 
characteristic  touches,  and  it  no  more  occurs  to  the  mind  that  the  scene  is  out  of 
New  England  than  that  Claude's  landscapes  are  in  it.  The  poem  treats  one  of  the 
grand  tragic  facts  of  life,  without  the  least  straining,  but  with  a  simplicity  which  is 
the  highest  reach  of  art  and  the  surest  sign  of  genius." — Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine, 
July,  1856. 

"Whatever  Mr.  Whittier  may  lack,  he  has  the  prime  merit  that  he  smacks  of 
the  soil.  It  is  a  New  England  heart  he  buttons  his  strait-breasted  coat  over,  and 
it  gives  the  buttons  a  sharp  strain  now  and  then.  Even  the  native  idiom  crops 
out  here  and  there  in  his  verses.  He  makes  'abroad'  rhyme  with  'God,'  'law' 
with  'war,'  'us'  with  'curse,'  'scorner'  with  'honor,'  'been'  with  'men,'  'beard' 
with  'shared.'  For  the  last  two  we  have  a  certain  sympathy  as  archaisms,  but  with 


602  AMERICAN  POEMS 


the  rest  we  can  make  no  terms  whatever — they  must  march  out  with  no  honors 

Of  war But  criticism  is  not  a  game  of  jerk-straws,  and  Mr.  Whittier  has 

other  and  better  claims  on  us  than  as  a  stylist.  There  is  a  true  fire  in  the  heart  of 
the  man,  and  his  eye  is  the  eye  of  a  poet.  A  more  juicy  soil  might  have  made  him  a 
Burns  or  a  Beranger  for  us.  New  England  is  dry  and  hard,  though  she  have  a 

warm  nook  in  her,  here  and  there,  where  the  magnolia  grows  after  a  fashion 

The  Puritans  left  us  a  fine  estate  in  conscience,  energy,  and  respect  for  learning; 
but  they  disinherited  us  of  the  past.  Not  a  single  stage-property  of  poetry  did  they 
bring  with  them  but  the  good  old  Devil,  with  his  graminivorous  attributes,  and 
even  he  could  not  stand  the  climate.  Neither  horn  nor  hoof  nor  tail  of  him  has  been 
seen  for  a  century.  He  is  as  dead  as  the  goat-footed  Pan,  whom  he  succeeded,  and 
we  tenderly  regret  him.  Mr.  Whittier  himself  complains  somewhere  of  '  The  rigor 
of  our  frozen  sky';  and  he  seems  to  have  been  thinking  of  our  clear,  thin,  intellectual 
atmosphere,  the  counterpart  of  our  physical  one,  of  which  artists  complain  that  it 
rounds  no  edges.  We  have  sometimes  thought  that  his  verses  suffered  from  a  New 
England  taint  in  a  too  great  tendency  to  metaphysics  and  morals,  which  may  be  the 
bases  on  which  poetry  rests,  but  should  not  be  carried  too  high  above-ground. 
Without  this,  however,  he  would  not  have  been  the  typical  New  England  poet  that  he 

is 'Skipper  Ireson's  Ride'  we  hold  to  be  by  long  odds  the  best  of  modern 

ballads In  'Telling  the  Bees'  Mr.  Whittier  has  enshrined  a  country  super 
stition  in  a  poem  of  exquisite  grace  and  feeling.  'The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann' 
would  have  been  a  fine  poem,  but  it  has  too  much  of  the  author  in  it,  and  to  put  a 
moral  at  the  end  of  a  ballad  is  like  sticking  a  cork  on  the  point  of  a  sword." — The 
Atlantic  Monthly,  November,  1860. 

"Its  [Whittier's  genius's]  distinguishing  marks  are  strength  of  moral  feeling, 
depth  of  religious  feeling  (which,  however,  never  gets  beyond  the  control  of  his 
reason),  much  tenderness  of  sentiment,  a  very  good  but  not  the  very  best  eye  for 
nature.  And  the  man  endowed  with  these  gifts  is  a  man  of  perfect  sincerity  and 
uprightness,  simple  and  above  suspicion  of  artifice  of  any  kind.  But  he  is  too  little 
sensuous,  humor  is  wanting  to  him,  and  he  is  not  a  poet  rich  in  imagination.  So 
one  reads  him,  and  gets  an  impression  of  a  certain  aridness  of  nature;  when  one 
remembers  his  kindliness  and  noble  philanthropy,  it  seems  like  a  sin  to  say  so,  yet 
that  impression  he  does  produce.  For  instance,  think  of  him  and  Keats  together, 
or  him  and  Coleridge,  and  one  can  imagine  either  of  the  others  rapt  at  'sight  of 
Proteus  rising  from  the  sea,'  and  him  struggling  for  a  moment  with  a  tendency  to 
look  on  all  Greek  gods  with  reprehension  as  heathens.  Sympathy  with  what  lies 
much  beyond  the  range  of  New  Englandish  thought  we  do  not  find  ourselves  expect 
ing  of  him.  We  submit  that  great  success  in  the  pursuit  of  poetry  of  the  less  exalted 
kinds,  fanciful,  imaginative,  sympathetic,  musical,  is  hardly  attainable  by  a  poet 
of  whom  one  may  make  the  assertion  we  have  permitted  ourselves  to  make  regarding 
Whittier.  It  is  an  assertion  which  we  think  will  receive  assent.  As  for  the  more 
splendid  triumphs  of  imagination,  they  are  for  few  to  think  of  attempting.  We  are 
glad,  then,  and  we  think  the  poet  not  unfortunate  but  fortunate,  that  in  the  anti- 
slavery  cause  he  found  a  theme  to  rouse  into  fervor  his  moral  feelings;  and  that  now 
in  his  age,  when  memory  can  aid  his  powers  with  the  charm  she  is  able  to  throw  over 
the  past,  he  has  had  time  to  write  for  us  his  beautiful  'Snow-Bound,'  a  poem  th* 


NOTES  603 


secret  of  whose  beauty  lies  partly  in  the  faithfulness  with  which  the  details  of  the 
farmhouse  life  are  drawn,  and  partly  in  the  soft  and  tender  lights  which  memory 
throws  over  the  picture." — The  Nation,  March  7,  1867. 

"  We  know  of  no  better  example  of  the  lameness  of  the  American  Muse  than 

Whittier He  is,  indeed,  wholly  devoid  of  the  creative  faculty  to  which  all 

true  poetry  owes  its  life;  and  yet  this  alone  could  have  lifted  most  of  the  subjects 

which  he  has  treated  out  of  the  dulness  and  weariness  of  the  commonplace 

Whitter  certainly  has  no  fear  of  trivial  and  commonplace  subjects,  but  in  his 

treatment  of  them  he  rarely,  if  ever,  rises  above  the  level  of  the  verse-maker 

He  cannot  give  sprightliness  or  variety  to  his  verse,  which,  like  a  sluggish  stream, 
creeps  languidly  along.  There  is  no  freshness  about  him,  none  of  the  breeziness  of 

nature,  none  of  its  joyousness,  exuberance,  and  exultant  strength Some 

of  his  descriptive  pieces  have  been  admired,  but  to  us  they  seem  artificial  and 

mechanical.  They  are  the  pictures  of  a  view-hunter 'Snow-Bound,'  a 

winter  idyl,  is,  in  the  opinion  of  several  critics,  Whittier's  best  performance.  A  more 
hackneyed  theme  he  would  probably  have  found  it  difficult  to  choose;  nor  has  he 

the  magic  charm  that  makes  the  old  seem  as  new In  Whittier's  verse  we 

often  catch  the  unmistakable  accent  of  genuine  feeling,  and  his  best  lyrics  are  so 
artless  and  simple  that  they  almost  disarm  criticism.  In  many  ways  his  influence 
has  doubtless  been  good." — The  Catholic  World,  January,  1877. 

"In  Whittier,  with  his  special  themes — (his  outcropping  love  of  heroism  and 
war,  for  all  his  Quakerdom,  his  verses  at  times  like  the  measur'd  step  of  Cromwell's 
old  veterans) — in  Whittier  lives  the  zeal,  the  moral  energy,  that  founded  New 
England — the  splendid  rectitude  and  ardor  of  Luther,  Milton,  George  Fox — I  must 
not,  dare  not,  say  the  wilfulness  and  narrowness — though  doubtless  the  world  needs 
now,  and  always  will  need,  almost  above  all,  just  such  narrowness  and  wilfulness." — 
Walt  Whitman,  Specimen  Days,  April  16,  1881.  "Whittier's  is  rather  a  grand 
figure,  but  pretty  lean  and  ascetic — no  Greek — not  universal  and  composite  enough 
(don't  try,  don't  wish  to  be)  for  ideal  Americanism." — Whitman,  "Old  Poets" 
(1890),  in  Complete  Prose  Works. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

"  Be  very  careful  how  you  tell  an  author  he  is  droll.     Ten  to  one  he  will  hate 

you Wonder  why  authors  and  actors  are  ashamed  of  being  funny  ?     Why 

there  are  obvious  reasons,  and  deep  philosophical  ones.  The  clown  knows  very 
well  that  the  women  are  not  in  love  with  him  but  with  Hamlet,  the  fellow  in  the 
black  cloak  and  plumed  hat.  Passion  never  laughs.  The  wit  knows  that  his  place 
is  at  the  tail  of  a  procession.  If  you  want  the  deep  underlying  reason,  I  must  take 
more  time  to  tell  it.  There  is  a  perfect  consciousness  in  every  form  of  wit — using 
that  term  in  its  general  sense — that  its  essence  consists  in  a  partial  and  incomplete 
view  of  whatever  it  touches.  It  throws  a  single  ray,  separated  from  the  rest — red, 
yellow,  blue,  or  any  intermediate  shade — upon  an  object;  never  white  light — that  is 
the  province  of  wisdom.  We  get  beautiful  effects  from  wit — all  the  prismatic 
colors — but  never  the  object  as  it  is  in  fair  daylight. Poetry  uses  the  rain 
bow  tints  for  special  effects,  but  always  keeps  its  essential  object  in  the  purest  white 


604  AMERICAN  POEMS 


light  of  truth."— The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table,  No.  III.  " '  A  lyric  conception,' 
my  friend,  the  Poet,  said,  'hits  me  like  a  bullet  in  the  forehead.  I  have  often  had 
the  blood  drop  from  my  cheeks  when  it  struck,  and  felt  that  I  turned  as  white  as 
death.  Then  comes  a  creeping  as  of  centipedes  running  down  the  spine, — then  a 
gasp  and  a  great  jump  of  the  heart, — then  a  sudden  flush  and  a  beating  in  the  vessels 
of  the  head, — then  a  long  sigh, — and  the  poem  is  written.'  'It  is  an  impromptu, 
I  suppose,  then,  if  you  write  it  so  suddenly,'  I  replied.  'No,'  said  he,  'far  from  it. 
I  said  written,  but  I  did  not  say  copied.  Every  such  poem  has  a  soul  and  a  body,  and 
it  is  the  body  of  it,  or  the  copy,  that  men  read  and  publishers  pay  for.  The  soul  of 
it  is  born  in  an  instant  in  the  poet's  soul.  It  comes  to  him  a  thought,  tangled  in  the 
meshes  of  a  few  sweet  words — words  that  have  loved  each  other  from  the  cradle 
of  the  language,  but  have  never  been  wedded  until  now.  Whether  it  will  ever  fully 
embody  itself  in  a  bridal  train  of  a  dozen  stanzas  or  not  is  uncertain;  but  it  exists 
potentially  from  the  instant  that  the  poet  turns  pale  with  it.'"— Ibid.,  No.  V. 
"There  are  times,  though,  he  [the  Poet]  says,  when  it  is  a  pleasure,  before  going 
to  some  agreeable  meeting,  to  rush  out  into  one's  garden  and  clutch  up  a  handful 
of  what  grows  there — weeds  and  violets  together, — not  cutting  them  off,  but  pulling 
them  up  by  the  roots  with  the  brown  earth  they  grow  in  sticking  to  them.  That  's 
his  idea  of  a  post-prandial  performance.  Look  here,  now.  These  verses  I  am 
going  to  read  you,  he  tells  me,  were  pulled  up  by  the  roots  just  in  that  way,  the  other 

dav My  friend,  the  Poet,  says  you  must  not  read  such  a  string  of  verses  too 

literally.  If  he  trimmed  it  nicely  below,  you  wouldn't  see  the  roots,  he  says,  and  he 
likes  to  keep  them  and  a  little  of  the  soil  clinging  to  them." — Ibid.,  No.  IX.  "Talent 
seems,  at  first,  in  one  sense,  higher  than  genius,  namely,  that  it  is  more  uniformly 
and  absolutely  submitted  to  the  will  and  therefore  more  distinctly  human  in  its 
character.  Genius,  on  the  other  hand,  is  much  more  like  those  instincts  which 
govern  the  admirable  movements  of  the  lower  creatures,  and  therefore  seems  to 
have  something  of  the  lower  or  animal  character.  A  goose  flies  by  a  chart  which 
the  Royal  Geographical  Society  could  not  mend.  A  poet,  like  the  goose,  sails 
without  visible  landmarks  to  unexplored  regions  of  truth,  which  philosophy  has  yet 
to  lay  down  on  its  atlas.  The  philosopher  gets  his  track  by  observation;  the  poet 
trusts  to  his  inner  sense,  and  makes  the  straighter  and  swifter  line."— The  Pro 
fessor  at  the  Breakfast  Table,  No.  X.  "On  the  one  hand,  I  believe  that  a  person 
with  the  poetical  faculty  finds  material  everywhere.  The  grandest  objects  of  sense 
and  thought  are  common  to  all  climates  and  civilizations.  The  sky,  the  woods, 
the  waters,  the  storms,  life,  death,  love,  the  hope  and  vision  of  eternity — these  are 
images  that  write  themselves  in  poetry  in  every  soul  which  has  anything  of  the 
divine  gift.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  lean,  impoverished  life,  in 
distinction  from  a  rich  and  suggestive  one.  Which  our  common  New  England  life 
might  be  considered,  I  will  not  decide.  But  there  are  some  things  I  think  the  poet 
misses  in  our  western  Eden.  I  trust  it  is  not  unpatriotic  to  mention  them  in  this 
point  of  view,  as  they  come  before  us  in  so  many  other  aspects.  There  is  no  sufficient 
flavor  of  humanity  in  the  soil  out  of  which  we  grow.  At  Cantabridge,  near  the  sea, 
I  have  once  or  twice  picked  up  an  Indian  arrowhead  in  a  fresh  furrow.  At  Canoe 
Meadow,  in  the  Berkshire  Mountains,  I  have  found  Indian  arrowheads.  So  every 
where  Indian  arrowheads.  Whether  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  years  old.  who  knows  ? 


NOTES  605 


who  cares?  There  is  no  history  to  the  red  race, — there  is  hardly  an  individual  in 
it:  a  few  instincts  on  legs  and  holding  a  tomahawk— there  is  the  Indian  of  all  time. 
The  story  of  one  red  ant  is  the  story  of  all  red  ants.  So  the  poet,  in  trying  to  wing 
his  way  back  through  the  life  that  has  kindled,  flitted,  and  faded  along  our  water 
courses  and  on  our  southern  hillsides  for  unknown  generations,  finds  nothing  to 

breathe But  think  of  the  Old  World— that  part  of  it  which  is  the  seat  of 

ancient  civilization  1  The  stakes  of  the  Britons'  stockades  are  still  standing  in  the 
bed  of  the  Thames.  The  ploughman  turns  up  an  old  Saxon's  bones,  and  beneath 
them  is  a  tessellated  pavement  of  the  time  of  the  Caesars.  In  Italy  the  works  of 
mediaeval  Art  seem  to  be  of  yesterday;  Rome  under  her  kings  is  but  an  intruding 
new-comer  as  we  contemplate  her  in  the  shadow  of  the  Cyclopean  walls  of  Fiesole 
or  Volterra.  It  makes  a  man  human  to  live  on  these  old  humanized  soils.  He 
cannot  help  marching  in  step  with  his  kind  in  the  rear  of  such  a  procession.  They 
say  a  dead  man's  hand  cures  swellings,  if  laid  on  them.  There  is  nothing  like  the 
dead  cold  hand  of  the  Past  to  take  down  our  tumid  egotism  and  lead  us  into  the 
solemn  flow  of  the  life  of  our  race." — Ibid. 

The  text  is  from  the  1866  edition. 

(375)  OLD  IRONSIDES.  First  published  in  The  Boston  Daily  Advertiser,  Sep 
tember  1 6,  1830.  The  poem  was  almost  an  impromptu,  scribbled  by  Holmes  with 
a  pencil  on  a  scrap  of  paper  when  he  read  in  The  Advertiser  of  September  14  that 
"the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  has  recommended  to  the  Board  of  Navy  Commissioners 
to  dispose  of  the  frigate  Constitution."  The  frigate  was  then  thirty-three  years 
old,  having  been  built  at  Boston  in  1797;  it  had  done  service  against  the  pirates  in 
the  Mediterranean  in  the  war  with  Tripoli  (1801-5),  &°d  in  the  War  of  1812  it 
raptured  several  British  vessels  after  hard  fighting.  Holmes's  lines  were  reprinted 
in  newspapers  throughout  the  country  and  helped  to  stir  up  so  strong  a  protest 
against  the  sale  of  the  old  ship  that  the  order  was  countermanded;  she  was  prac 
tically  rebuilt,  was  kept  in  service  until  1881,  and  has  served  since  then  as  a  school- 
ship.  Holmes  inserted  the  poem  in  his  "Poetry,  a  Metrical  Essay"  (1836),  where 
it  is  introduced  thus: 

Hear  an  old  song,  which  some,  perchance,  have  seen 
In  stale  gazette  or  cobwebbed  magazine. 
There  was  an  hour  when  patriots  dared  profane 
The  mast  that  Britain  strove  to  bow  in  vain; 
And  one,  who  listened  to  the  tale  of  shame, 
Whose  heart  still  answered  to  that  sacred  name, 
Whose  eyes  still  followed  o'er  his  country's  tides 
Thy  glorious  flag,  pur  brave  Old  Ironsides, 
From  yon  lone  attic,  on  a  summer's  morn, 
Thus  mocked  the  spoilers  with  his  school-boy  scorn. 

(377)  THE  LAST  LEAF.  First  published  in  The  Boston  Harbinger.  Holmes  said 
that  the  poem  was  suggested  by  a  figure  often  seen  on  the  streets  of  Boston  in  the 
early  thirties,  Major  Thomas  Melville,  who  was  reputed  to  have  taken  part  in  the 
Boston  Tea-Party  of  1774;  in  old  age  he  still  wore  the  colonial  costume,  as  described 
in  the  poem. 

(379)  THE  COMET.  The  poem  was  apparently  suggested  by  the  reappearance 
of  Halley's  Comet,  in  1835,  which  by  its  splendor  attracted  universal  interest. 


6o6  AMERICAN  POEMS 

(380)  47,  48.  Cf.  "The  Ancient  Mariner,"  11.  566,  567: 

and  all  the  while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

(381)  URANIA.     Lines    385-406.     Delivered    before    the    Boston    Mercantile 
Library  Association,  October  14,  1846. 

(381)  THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS.     First  published  in  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table,  No.  IV  (The  Atlantic  Monthly,  February,  1858),  where  it  was  intro 
duced  thus:  "Did  I  not  say  to  you  a  little  while  ago  that  the  universe  swam  in  an 
ocean  of  similitudes  and  analogies?     I  will  not  quote  Cowley  or  Burns  or  Words 
worth,  just  now,  to  show  you  what  thoughts  were  suggested  to  them  by  the  simplest 
natural  objects,  such  as  a  flower  or  a  leaf;  but  I  will  read  you  a  few  lines,  if  you  do 
not  object,  suggested  by  looking  at  a  section  of  one  of  those  chambered  shells  to 

which  is  given  the  name  of  Pearly  Nautilus If  you  will  look  into  Roget's 

Bridgewater  Treatise,  you  will  find  a  figure  of  one  of  these  shells  and  a  section  of  it. 
The  last  will  show  you  the  series  of  enlarging  compartments  successively  dwelt 
in  by  the  animal  that  inhabits  the  shell,  which  is  built  in  a  widening  spiral.     Can 
you  find  no  lesson  in  this?" 

(382)  THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE.     First  published  in  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast-Table,  No.  XI  (The  Atlantic  Monthly,  September,  1858). 

(385)  THE  BOYS.     Read  at  the  reunion  of  the  poet's  class,  in  1859,  on  the 
thirtieth  anniversary  of  their  graduation  from  Harvard  College. 

(386)  15.  "Doctor":     Francis   Thomas.     "Judge":     G.    T.    Bigelow,    Chief 
Justice  of  the  Massachusetts  Supreme  Court.     If  17-  "Speaker":   F.  B.  Crownin- 
shield,   Speaker  of   the   Massachusetts   House   of   Representatives.     H  18.  "Mr. 
Mayor":    G.  W.  Richardson,  mayor  of  Worcester,     fl  19.  "Member  of  Congress": 
G.  T.  Davis,  who  became  a  representative  from  Massachusetts  in  1851.     H  20. 
"Reverend"   What  's-his-name:    James  Freeman  Clarke,  a  prominent  Unitarian 
clergyman  of  Boston.     H  21.  That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look:    Benjamin 
Peirce,  one  of  the  foremost  American  mathematicians,  for  many  years  professor  in 
Harvard  University.     U  25.  a  boy  ....  with  a  three-decker  brain:    B.  R.  Curtis, 
of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court.     K  29.  a  nice  youngster:  S.  F.  Smith,  author 
of  "America." 

(387)  HYMN  OF  TRUST.     First  published  in  The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast- 
Table,  No.  XI  (The  Atlantic  Monthly,  November,  1859),  where  it  was  introduced 
thus:   "It  was  evening,  and  I  was  going  to  the  sick-chamber.     As  I  paused  at  the. 
door  before  entering,  I  heard  a  sweet  voice  singing.     It  was  not  the  wild  melody  1 
had  sometimes  heard  at  midnight;   no,  this  was  the  voice  of  Iris,  and  I  could  dis 
tinguish  every  word.     I  had  seen  the  verses  in  her  book;  the  melody  was  new  to  me. 
Let  me  finish  my  page  with  them." 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"The  strain  upon  the  plan  proposed  by  the  Navy  Department  for  breaking  up 
the  frigate  Constitution,  an  unhappy  suggestion  of  some  one  who  was  probably 
more  familiar  with  national  ship-yards  than  national  feelings,  will  rank  with  the 
best  martial  songs  of  England.  We  think  that  the  comic  pieces  in  this  little  collec- 


NOTES  607 


tion  are  decidedly  the  best,  or  rather  we  should  say  those  in  which  a  quiet  humor  is 
blended  with  the  pathetic  so  as  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  grotesque  without 

destroying  the  plaintive  character  of  the  whole At  the  same  time  we  must 

allow  that  his  more  comic  pieces  are  exceedingly  entertaining,  particularly  the  lines 
upon  the  Comet,  which  is  irresistible  for  its  humor  and  at  the  same  time  contains 
one  or  two  passages  of  great  power." — The  North  American  Review,  January,  1837. 

"We  have  hardly  left  ourselves  room  to  say  a  word  about  our  old  favorite, 
Holmes;  but  as  he  is  also  everybody's  favorite,  there  is  no  occasion  for  critics  to 
meddle  with  him,  either  to  censure  or  to  praise.  He  can  afford  to  laugh  at  the  whoie 
reviewing  fraternity.  His  wit  is  all  his  own,  so  sly  and  tingling,  but  without  a  drop 
of  ill-nature  in  it,  and  never  leaving  a  sting  behind.  His  humor  is  so  grotesque 
and  queer  that  it  reminds  one  of  the  frolics  of  Puck;  and  deep  pathos  mingles  with 
it  so  naturally  that  when  the  reader's  eyes  are  brimming  with  tears  he  knows  not 
whether  they  have  their  source  in  sorrow  or  in  laughter.  The  great  merits  of  his 
English  style  we  noticed  on  a  former  occasion;  for  point,  idiomatic  propriety, 
and  terseness  it  is  absolutely  without  a  rival." — The  North  American  Review, 
January.  1849. 

"The  volume  now  before  us  gives,  in  addition  to  the  poems  and  lyrics  contained 
in  the  two  previous  editions,  some  hundred  or  more  pages  of  the  later  productions 
of  the  author,  in  the  sprightly  vein,  and  marked  by  the  brilliant  fancy  and  felicitous 

diction  for  which  the  former  were  noteworthy Such  lyrics  as  ....  that 

unique  compound  of  humor  and  pathos,  'The  Last  Leaf,'  show  that  he  possesses 
the  power  of  touching  the  deeper  chords  of  the  heart  and  of  calling  forth  tears  as 

well  as  smiles Holmes  writes  simply  for  the  amusement  of  himself  and  his 

readers;  he  deals  only  with  the  vanity,  the  foibles,  and  the  minor  faults  of  mankind, 
good-naturedly  and  almost  sympathizingly  suggesting  excuses  for  the  folly  which 
he  tosses  about  on  the  horns  of  his  ridicule." — John  G.  Whittier,  in  The  National 
Era  (as  reprinted  in  LittdVs  Living  Age,  March  17,  1849). 

"In  all  humbleness — for  we  should  be  sorry  to  say  aught  that  might  be  con 
strued  into  a  detraction  or  derogation  of  the  merits  of  this  highly  cultured  and 
pleasant  writer — we  shall,  nevertheless,  endeavor  to  prove — and  we  hope  satis 
factorily — that  his  so-called  poems  are  only  verses — certainly  verses  of  fine  quality, 
musical  in  rhythm,  chaste  in  tone,  delicate  in  sentiment,  and  unexceptionable  in 
point  of  finish  and  expression;  but  still,  with  all  these  qualities  to  recommend  them, 
in  our  meek  opinion  only  verses,  lacking  the  very  elements  and  essentials  that 

would  constitute  them  poems Now  there  is  no  doubt  that  this  set  of  verses, 

like  others  in  the  volume,  has  been  wrought  with  studious  care  and  perhaps  with 
painful  study;  and  yet  the  result  is  only  a  jingle  of  vacuous  commonplaces,  tinged 
with  poor  sentiment,  bearing  the  same  relation  to  poetry  as  a  page  of  Martin 
Tupper's  'Proverbial  Philosophy'  does  to  a  page  of  'Paradise  Lost.'  ....  And 
yet  we  must  do  justice  to  the  dormant  powers  of  Doctor  Holmes,  for  occasionally 

he  gives  us  a  sample  of  what  he  might  do  when  the  higher  mood  is  on  him 

Among  the  few  really  lofty  ebullitions  of  his  fancy  'The  Chambered  Nautilus'  is  a 
fair  example.  This  piece  wafts  rich  odors  from  the  fairyland  of  poesy.  Its  undulat 
ing  rhythm  of  melody,  its  wide-reaching  pathos,  and  its  solemn  appeal  to  the  soul 
cannot  be  resisted." — The  Knickerbocker  Monthly,  March,  1863. 


6o8  AMERICAN  POEMS 

"We  have  reserved  Holmes  to  the  last,  not  that  he  is  least  among  American 
humourists,  but  because  he  brings  American  humour  to  its  finest  point,  and  is,  in 
fact,  the  first  of  American  Wits.  Perhaps  the  following  verses  [''Contentment"] 
will  best  illustrate  a  specialty  of  Holmes's  wit,  the  kind  of  badinage  with  which  he 
quizzes  common  sense  so  successfully  by  his  happy  paradox  of  serious  straightfor 
ward  statement  and  quiet  qualifying  afterwards  by  which  he  tapers  his  point." — 
The  Quarterly  Review,  January,  1867. 

"The  melody  of  Holmes's  verse  is  characteristic  and  supreme.  Of  all  the 

meters  he  has  chosen  he  is  easily  master In  the  choice  of  subjects  Holmes  is 

seen  to  be  a  poet  of  high  rank.  He  is  not  restricted,  like  many,  to  a  monotonous 

kind  of  song His  ideas,  his  manner,  his  wit  and  pathos,  his  fire,  his  melody 

are  entirely  his  own.  Not  one  of  his  characteristic  poems  can  be  referred  to  any 
outward  source,  nor  mistaken  for  the  production  of  any  other  poet.  He  is  a  new 
essence,  a  new  color  or  flavor." — F.  H.  Underwood,  in  Scribner's  Monthly,  May,  1879. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

The  text,  with  the  exceptions  noted,  is  from  the  1863  edition. 

(387)  OUR   LOVE   Is   NOT   A   FADING,    EARTHLY   FLOWER.     Cf.   Shakspere, 
Sonnets  Nos.  73  and  116,  for  similarities  in  style  and  thought. 

(388)  WENDELL  PHILLIPS.    Wendell  Phillips  (1811-84),  a  descendant  of  one 
of  the  oldest  and  best  New  England  families,  graduated  from  Harvard  College  at 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  three  years  later;   at  the  age  of 
twenty-six  he  gave  up  the  brilliant  career  which  was  opening  before  him  and  threw 
in  his  lot  with  the  unpopular  Abolitionist  movement 

(388)  RHCECUS.     Cf.  Lander's  "Hamadryad"  (1846).     Th?  legend  has  been 
traced  back  to  Greek  sources  in  the  fifth  century  B.C.      H  1-35-  Cf.  Emerson's 
"Problem"  (p.  315)  and  Carlyle's  "The  Hero  as  Divinity"  in  Heroes  and  Hero- 
Worship  (1841). 

(389)  1 8.  like  the  hazel  twig:  an  allusion  to  the  belief  that  a  fork-shaped  branch 
of  hazel,  carried  in  the  hands,  will  indicate  the  presence  of  water  underground  by  a 
downward    twitch.     \  20-24.  Cf.    Emerson's   Nature    (1836),    chap,    iv,    "Every 
natural  fact  is  a  symbol  of  some  spiritual  fact,"  and  the  doctrine  of  the  whole  work; 
cf.  also  "The  Poet"  in  Essays,  Second  Series  (1844),  "There  is  no  man  who  does  not 
anticipate  a  supersensual  utility  in  the  sun  and  stars,  earth  and  water." 

(392)  To  THE  DANDELION.     First  published  in  Graham's  Magazine,  January, 
1845.     U  1-9.  Cf.  Bryant's '"Yellow  Violet"  (p.  181)  and  Wordsworth's  "To  the 
Small  Celandine"  and  "To  the  Daisy"  (first  poem).     U  2.  harmless  gold:  cf.  11.  10- 
13.     U  n.  Indian:  i.e.,  West  Indian;  the  allusion  is  to  the  Spaniards'  exploitation 
of  Mexico  and  Peru. 

(393)  19-36.  Cf.  Keats's  "Ode  to  a  Nightingale"  and  Tennyson's  "Lotus- 
Eaters"  for  similarities  in  style  and  description  of  nature.     If  26.  Sybaris:  Sybaris, 
a  city  in  southern  Italy,  founded  by  Greek  colonists,  was  famous  for  its  wealth  and 
luxury. 

(394)  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.     "When,  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  I  wrote 
the  first  of  the  series,  I  had  no  definite  plan  and  no  intention  of  ever  writing  another- 


NOTES  609 


Thinking  the  Mexican  war,  as  I  think  it  still,  a  national  crime  committed  in  behoof  of 
Slavery,  our  common  sin,  and  wishing  to  put  the  feeling  of  those  who  thought  as 
I  did  in  a  way  that  would  tell,  I  imagined  to  myself  such  an  up-country  man  as  I 
had  often  seen  at  anti-slavery  gatherings,  capable  ef  district-school  English,  but 
always  instinctively  falling  back  into  the  natural  stronghold  of  his  homely  dialect 

when  heated  to  the  point  of  self-forgetfulness I  needed  on  occasion  to  rise 

above  the  level  of  mere  patois,  and  for  this  purpose  conceived  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Wilbur,  who  should  express  the  more  cautious  element  of  the  New  England  char 
acter  and  its  pedantry,  as  Mr.  Biglow  should  serve  for  its  homely  common-sense 

vivified  and  heated  by  conscience Finding  soon  after  that  I  needed  some  one 

as  a  mouthpiece  of  the  mere  drollery  (for  I  conceive  that  true  humor  is  never  divorced 
from  moral  conviction),  I  invented  Mr.  Sawin  for  the  clown  of  my  little  puppet- 
show For  the  names  of  two  of  my  characters,  since  I  have  received  some 

remonstrances  from  very  worthy  persons  who  happened  to  bear  them,  I  would  say 
that  they  were  purely  fortuitous,  probably  mere  unconscious  memories  of  signboards 
or  directories.  Mr.  Sawin's  sprang  from  the  accident  of  a  rhyme  at  the  end  of  his 
first  epistle;  and  I  purposely  christened  him  by  the  impossible  surname  of  Birdo- 
fredum  not  more  to  stigmatize  him  as  the  incarnation  of  'Manifest  Destiny' — in 
other  words,  of  national  recklessness  as  to  right  and  wrong, — than  to  avoid  the 

chance  of  wounding  any  private  sensitiveness In  choosing  the  Yankee 

dialect  I  did  not  act  without  forethought.  It  had  long  seemed  to  me  that  the  great 
vice  of  American  writing  and  speaking  was  a  studied  want  of  simplicity,  that  we  were 
in  danger  of  coming  to  look  on  our  mother-tongue  as  a  dead  language,  to  be  sought 
in  the  grammar  and  dictionary  rather  than  in  the  heart,  and  that  our  only  chance 
of  escape  was  by  seeking  it  at  its  living  sources  among  those  who  were,  as  Scottowe 
says  of  Major-General  Gibbons,  'divinely  illiterate.'  ....  In  the  literary  world 
things  seemed  to  me  very  much  as  they  were  in  the  latter  half  of  the  last  century. 
Pope,  skimming  the  cream  of  good  sense  and  expression  wherever  he  could  find  it, 
had  made,  not  exactly  poetry,  but  an  honest,  salable  butter  of  worldly  wisdom 
which  pleasantly  lubricated  some  of  the  drier  morsels  of  life's  daily  bread;  and, 
seeing  this,  scores  of  harmlessly  insane  people  went  on  for  the  next  fifty  years  coax 
ing  his  buttermilk  with  the  regular  up  and  down  of  the  pentameter  churn.  And 
in  our  day  do  we  not  scent  everywhere,  and  even  carry  away  in  our  clothes  against 
our  will,  that  faint  perfume  of  musk  which  Mr.  Tennyson  has  left  behind  him,  or, 
worse,  of  Heine's  pachouli ?  And  might  it  not  be  possible  to  escape  them  by  turning 
into  one  of  our  narrow  New  England  lanes,  shut  in  though  it  were  by  bleak  stone 
walls  on  either  hand,  and  where  no  better  flowers  were  to  be  gathered  than  golden- 
rod  and  hardhack  ?  ....  I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Biglow  can  be  fairly  charged  with 
vulgarity,  and  I  should  have  entirely  failed  in  my  design  if  I  have  not  made  it  appear 
that  high  and  even  refined  sentiment  may  coexist  with  the  shrewder  and  more 
comic  elements  of  the  Yankee  character.  I  believe  that  what  is  essentially  vulgar 
and  mean-spirited  in  politics  seldom  has  its  source  in  the  body  of  the  people,  but 
much  rather  among  those  who  are  made  timid  by  their  wealth  or  selfish  by  their 

love  of  power To  me  the  dialect  was  native,  was  spoken  all  about  me  when 

a  boy,  at  a  time  when  an  Irish  day-laborer  was  as  rare  as  an  American  one  now. 
Since  then  I  have  made  a  study  of  it  so  far  as  opportunity  allowed.  But  when  I 


6 10  AMERICAN  POEMS 


write  in  it,  it  is  as  in  a  mother-tongue;  and  I  am  carried  back  far  beyond  any  studies 
of  it  to  long-ago  noonings  in  my  father's  hay-fields,  and  to  the  talk  of  Sam  and  Job 
over  their  jug  of  blackstrap  under  the  shadow  of  the  ash-tree  which  still  dapples 
the  grass  whence  they  have  been  gone  so  long." — Introduction  to  The  Biglow  Papers, 
Second  Series,  1866  edition. 

(394)  No.  I.  First  published  in  The  Boston  Courier,  June  17,  1846.  When 
the  poem  was  published  in  book  form  it  was  preceded  and  followed  by  a  letter  and 
a  note,  as  follows: 

"A  Letter  from  Mr.  Ezekiel  Biglow  of  Jaalam  to  the  Hon.  Joseph  T.  Bucking 
ham,  editor  of  The  Boston  Courier,  inclosing  a  poem  of  his  son,  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow: 

JAYLEM,  June  1846. 

Mister  Eddyter: — Our  hosea  wuz  down  to  Boston  last  week,  and  he  see  a 
cruetin  Sarjunt  a  struttin  round  as  popler  as  a  hen  with  i  chicking,  with  2  fellers  a 
drummin  and  fifin  arter  him  like  all  nater.  the  sarjunt  he  thout  Hosea  hedn't 
gut  his  5  teeth  cut  cos  he  looked  a  kindo's  though  he'd  jest  com  down,  so  he  cal'lated 
to  hook  him  in,  but  Hosy  woodn't  take  non  o'  his  sarse  for  all  he  bed  much  as  20 
Rooster's  tales  stuck  onto  his  hat  and  eenamost  enuf  brass  a  bobbin  up  and  down  on 
his  shoulders  and  figureed  onto  his  coat  and  trousis,  let  alone  wut  nater  bed  sot  in 
his  featers,  to  make  a  6  pounder  out  on.  wal,  Hosea  he  com  home  considerabal 
riled,  and  arter  I'd  gone  to  bed  I  heern  Him  a  thrashin  round  like  a  short-tailed 
Bull  in  fli-time.  The  old  Woman  ses  she  to  me  ses  she,  Zekle,  ses  she,  our  Hosee's 
gut  the  chollery  or  suthin  anuther  ses  she,  don't  you  Bee  skeered,  ses  I,  he's  oney 
amakin  pottery1  ses  I,  he's  oilers  on  hand  at  that  ere  busynes  like  Da  &  martin, 
and  shure  enuf,  cum  mornin,  Hosy  he  cum  down  stares  full  chizzle,  hare  on  eend  and 
cote  tales  flyin,  and  sot  rite  of  to  go  reed  his  varses  to  Parson  Wilbur  bein  he  haint 
aney  grate  shows  o'  book  larnin  himself,  bimeby  he  cum  back  and  sed  the  parson 
wuz  dreflle  tickled  with  'em  as  i  hoop  you  will  Be,  and  said  they  wuz  True  grit. 
Hosea  ses  taint  hardly  fair  to  call  'em  hisn  now,  cos  the  parson  kind  o'  slicked  off 
sum  o'  the  last  varses,  but  he  told  Hosee  he  didnt  want  to  put  his  ore  in  to  tetch 
to  the  Rest  on  'em,  bein  they  wuz  werry  well  As  thay  wuz,  and  then  Hosy  ses  he  sed 
suthin  a  nuther  about  Simplex  Mundishes  or  sum  sech  feller,  but  I  guess  Hosea 
kind  o'  didn't  hear  him,  for  I  never  hearn  o'  nobody  o1  that  name  in  this  villadge, 
and  I've  lived  here  man  and  boy  76  year  cum  next  tater  diggin,  and  thair  aint  no 
wheres  a  kitting  spryer  'n  I  be.  If  you  print  'em  I  wish  you'd  jest  let  folks  know 
who  hosy's  father  is,  cos  my  ant  Keziah  used  to  say  it's  nater  to  be  curus  ses  she, 

she  aint  livin  though  and  he's  a  likely  kind  o'  lad. 

EZEKIEL  BIGLOW." 

"The  first  recruiting  sergeant  on  record  I  conceive  to  have  been  that  individual 
who  is  mentioned  in  the  Book  of  Job  as  going  to  and  fro  in  the  earth  and  walking  up 
and  down  in  it.  Bishop  Latimer  will  have  him  to  have  been  a  bishop,  but  to  me 
that  other  calling  would  appear  more  congenial.  The  sect  of  Cainites  is  not  yet 
extinct,  who  esteemed  the  first-born  of  Adam  to  be  the  most  worthy,  not  only 
because  of  that  privilege  of  primogeniture,  but  inasmuch  as  he  was  able  to  overcome 
and  slay  his  younger  brother.  That  was  a  wise  saying  of  the  famous  Marquis 


1  Aut  insanet,  aut  versos  facit.— H.  W. 


NOTES  611 


Pescara  to  the  Papal  Legate,  that  it  was  impossible  for  men  to  serve  Mars  and  Christ 
at  the  same  time.  Yet  in  time  past  the  profession  of  arms  was  judged  to  be  /car'  ^OXT}* 
that  of  a  gentleman,  nor  does  this  opinion  want  for  strenuous  upholders  even  in 
our  day.  Must  we  suppose,  then,  that  the  profession  of  Christianity  was  only 
intended  for  losels,  or,  at  best,  to  afford  an  opening  for  plebeian  ambition  ?  Or  shall 
we  hold  with  that  nicely  metaphysical  Pomeranian,  Captain  Vratz,  who  was  Count 
Konigsmark's  chief  instrument  in  the  murder  of  Mr.  Thynne,  that  the  Scheme  of 
Salvation  has  been  arranged  with  an  especial  eye  to  the  necessities  of  the  upper 
classes,  and  that  '  God  would  consider  a  gentleman  and  deal  with  him  suitably  to 
the  condition  and  profession  he  had  placed  him  in'?  It  may  be  said  of  us  all, 
Exemplo  plus  quam  ratione  i-ivimus. — H.  W." 

(394)  9.  air  =  there.     ^  19.  oilers  =  always. 

(395)  57.  atry  =  area.     ^  61.  Calif orny:  California,  then  belonging  to  Mexico, 
was  invaded  by  United  States  troops  in  1846;   in  1848,  as  a  result  of  the  war,  it 
was  ceded  to  the  United  States. 

(396)  72.  7w'/c  =  white.     H  76.  gump  =  a.   dullard.     ^  81.  turnin'    out   to    hack 
folks:    giving  grand  people  (riding  in  hacks)  more  than  their  share  of  the  road; 
' '  hack  folks,"  in  this  sense,  is  still  occasionally  used  in  parts  of  New  England.     U  84. 
put  upon  =  deceived,  tricked. 

(397)  121,  122.  The  governor  of  Massachusetts  had  just  called  for  the  enlist 
ment  of  troops  to  fight  Mexico;  and  two  Massachusetts  Congressmen  had  recently 
voted  for  a  bill  appropriating  $10,000,000  to  carry  on  the  war.     \  126.  wracks  = 
flying  storm-clouds.     H  129.  sold  your  colored  seamen:  several  of  the  Southern  states 
had  laws  forbidding  free  Negroes  to  enter  their  borders,  and  under  this  law  Negro 
sailors  had  been  punished  by  imprisonment  and  whipping  and  even  sold  into  slavery. 
If  130.  env'ys=*  envoys.     In  1844  two  envoys  had  been  sent  by  the  governor  of 
Massachusetts  to  South  Carolina  and  Louisiana  to  protest  against  the  ill  treatment 
of  Massachusetts  freedmen  in  those  states;  they  were  compelled  to  leave,  one  by  a 
legislative  order,  the  other  by  threats.     wiz  =  whizz,  hurry  away. 

(398)  153-60.  Many  Abolitionists  at  this  time  believed  in  the  right  of  a 
state  peaceably  to  withdraw  from  the  Union,  and  preferred  that  the  slave  states 
should  secede  rather  than  that  the  whole  nation  should  continue  to  be  responsible 
for  slavery.     Cf.  Whittier's  "Texas  "(1846),  stanzas  17,  18: 

Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough  and  forge  and  loom. 

Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

(398)  No.  II.  First  published  in  The  Boston  Courier,  August  18, 1847.  When 
reprinted  in  book  form  the  poem  was  preceded  by  the  following  letter,  with  a  prefa 
tory  note  by  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wilbur  (the  reverend  gentleman's  dissertation  at 
the  end  of  the  poem  is  here  omitted) : 

"A  letter  from  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  to  the  Hon.  J.  T.  Buckingham,  editor  of  The 
Boston  Courier,  covering  a  letter  from  Mr.  B.  Sawin,  private  in  the  Massachusetts 
regiment. 


6i2  AMERICAN  POEMS 


"[This  letter  of  Mr.  Sawin's  was  not  originally  written  in  verse.  Mr.  Biglow, 
thinking  it  peculiarly  susceptible  of  metrical  adornment,  translated  it,  so  to  speak 
into  his  own  vernacular  tongue.  This  is  not  the  time  to  consider  the  question 
whether  rhyme  be  a  mode  of  expression  natural  to  the  human  race.  If  leisure  from 
other  and  more  important  avocations  be  granted,  I  will  handle  the  matter  more  at 
large  in  an  appendix  to  the  present  volume.  In  this  place  I  will  barely  remark 
that  I  have  sometimes  noticed  in  the  unlanguaged  prattlings  of  infants  a  fondness  for 
alliteration,  assonance,  and  even  rhyme,  in  which  natural  predisposition  we  may 
trace  the  three  degrees  through  which  our  Anglo-Saxon  verse  rose  to  its  culmination 
in  the  poetry  of  Pope.  I  would  not  be  understood  as  questioning  in  these  remarks 
that  pious  theory  which  supposes  that  children,  if  left  entirely  to  themselves, 
would  naturally  discourse  in  Hebrew.  For  this  the  authority  of  one  experiment  is 
claimed;  and  I  could,  with  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  desire  its  establishment,  inasmuch 
as  the  acquirement  of  that  sacred  tongue  would  thereby  be  facilitated.  I  am  aware 
that  Herodotus  states  the  conclusion  of  Psammeticus  to  have  been  in  favor  of  a 
dialect  of  the  Phrygian.  But,  beside  the  chance  that  a  trial  of  this  importance 
would  hardly  be  blessed  to  a  Pagan  monarch  whose  only  motive  was  curiosity,  we 
have  on  the  Hebrew  side  the  comparatively  recent  investigation  of  James  the  Fourth 
of  Scotland.  I  will  add  to  this  prefatory  remark,  that  Mr.  Sawin,  though  a  native 
of  Jaalam,  has  never  been  a  stated  attendant  on  the  religious  exercises  of  my  con 
gregation.  I  consider  my  humble  efforts  prospered  in  that  not  one  of  my  sheep 
hath  ever  indued  the  wolf's  clothing  of  war,  save  for  the  comparatively  innocent 
diversion  of  a  militia  training.  Not  that  my  flock  are  backward  to  undergo  the 
hardships  of  defensive  warfare.  They  serve  cheerfully  in  the  great  army  which 
fights  even  unto  death  pro  aris  etfocis,  accoutered  with  the  spade,  the  axe,  the  plane, 
the  sledge,  the  spelling-book,  and  other  such  effectual  weapons  against  want  and 
ignorance  and  unthrift.  I  have  taught  them  (under  God)  to  esteem  our  human 
institutions  as  but  tents  of  a  night,  to  be  stricken  whenever  Truth  puts  the  bugle 
to  her  lips  and  sounds  a  march  to  the  heights  of  wider-viewed  intelligence  and  more 
perfect  organization. — H.  W.]" 

"MiSTER  BUCKINUM,  the  follerin  Billet  was  writ  hum  by  a  Yung  feller  of  our 
town  that  wuz  cussed  fool  enuff  to  goe  atrottin  inter  Miss  Chiff  arter  a  drum  and 
fife,  it  ain't  Nater  for  a  feller  to  let  on  that  he's  sick  o'  any  bizness  that  He  went 
intu  off  his  own  free  will  and  a  Cord,  but  I  rather  cal'late  he's  middlin  tired  o' 
voluntearin  By  this  Time.  I  bleeve  u  may  put  dependants  on  his  statemence.  For 
I  never  heered  nothing  bad  on  him  let  Alone  his  havin  what  Parson  Wilbur  cals  a 
pongshong  for  cocktales,  and  he  ses  it  wuz  a  soshiashun  of  idees  sot  him  agoin  arter 
the  Crootin  Sargient  cos  he  wore  a  cocktale  onto  his  hat.  his  Folks  gin  the  letter 
to  me  and  i  shew  it  to  parson  Wilbur  and  he  ses  it  oughter  Bee  printed,  send  It 
to  mister  Buckinum,  ses  he,  i  don't  oilers  agree  with  him,  ses  he,  but  by  Time,1  ses 


'"In  relation  to  this  expression,  I  cannot  but  think  that  Mr.  Bigelow  has  been  too  hasty 
in  attributing  it  to  me.  Though  Time  be  a  comparatively  innocent  personage  to  swear 
by,  and  though  Longinus  in  his  discourse  Ilepi  "Yi//ov?  has  commended  timely  oaths  as  not 
only  a  useful  but  sublime  figure  of  speech,  yet  I  have  always  kept  my  lips  free  from  that 
abominatimi  Odi  tirafanum  lulgus,  I  hate  your  swearing  and  hectoring  fellows. — H  W  " 


NOTES  613 


be,  I  du  like  a  feller  that  ain't  a  Feared.      I  have  intusspussed  a  Few  refleckshuns 
hear  and  thair.     We're  kind  o'  prest  with  Hayin. 

Ewers  respecfly 
HOSEA  BIGLOW." 


H3.  *Aa^0M  =  chapeaux,  cocked  hats,  f  4.  fannes-  ensigns.  f  8.  the  Corn- 
wallis:  "  A  sort  of  muster  in  masquerade;  supposed  to  have  had  its  origin  soon  after 
the  Revolution,  and  to  commemorate  the  surrender  of  Lord  Corn  wallis."—  Lowell. 
"i  hait  the  Site  of  a  feller  with  a  muskit  as  I  du  pizn  But  their  is  fun  to  a  cornwallis 
I  aint  agoin'  to  deny  it.—  H.  B."  If  9.  /  wish  thel  I  wuz  furder:  "he  means  Not 
quite  so  fur  I  guess.  —  H.  B." 

(399)  ii.  slarterin'  =  slaughtering,     f  24.  Caleb:      General     Caleb     Gushing. 
U  26.  folly  =  follow.     H  29.  Funnel:   Faneuil  Hall,  in  Boston,     f  30.  Bollcs:   John 
A.   Bolles,   Massachusetts  secretary  of  state,    1843-44.     Cunnlc  =  colonel.     H  31. 
Secondary:  "the  ignerant  creeter  means  Sekketary;  but  he  oilers  stuck  to  his  books 
like  cobbler's  wax  to  an  ile-stone.—  H.  B."     \  33.  Rantoul:    Robert  Rantoul,  a 
prominent  Boston  lawyer,  and  a  leader  of  the  Jackson  Democrats;  as  a  member  of  the 
Massachusetts  legislature  he  prepared  a  report  advocating  the  abolition  of  the  death 
penalty,     fl  36.  lights  =  bowels.     H  39.  saxons  =  sextons.     H  50.  "it  must  be  aloud 
that  thare's  a  streak  o'  nater  in  lovin'  sho,  but  it  sartinly  is  i  of  the  curusest  things 
in  nater  to  see  a  rispecktabledri  goods  dealer  (deekon  off  a  chutch  mayby)  a  riggin' 
himself  out  in  the  Weigh  they  du  and  struttin'  round  in  the  Reign  aspilin'  his  trowsis 
and  makin'  wet  goods  of  himself.     Ef  any  thin's  foolisher  and  moor  dicklus  than 
militerry  gloary  it  is  milishy  gloary.—  H.  B." 

(400)  52.  Saltillo:   the  capital  of  one  of  the  Mexican  states.    Salt-river:  "An 
imaginary  river,  up  which  defeated  politicians  and  political  parties  are  supposed 
to  be  sent  to  oblivion."—  The  Century  Dictionary.     The  term  is  supposed  to  be 
derived  from  a  small  river  in  Kentucky  full  of  windings  and  shallows.     It  seems  to 
be  used  here  in  the  sense  of  something  wholly  imaginary,  a  hoax,  like  the  Mexico 
of    Sawin's    dreams.     \  57.  wopper  =  whopper,    a    big    lie.     \  58.  chapparal  =  a. 
thorny   thicket.     If  60.  "these   fellers   are    verry   proppilly   called   Rank   Heroes 
[rancheros,  ranchmen],  and  the  more  tha  kill  the  ranker  and  more  Herowick  tha 
bekum.  —  H.  B."     ^  62.  scarabaus  pilularius:   "it  wuz  'tumblebug'  as  he  Writ  it, 
but  the  parson  put  the  Latten  instid.     i  sed  tother  maid  better  meeter,  but  he  said 
tha  was  eddykated  peepl  to  Boston  and  tha  wouldn't  stan'  it  no  how.     idnow  as  tha 
wood  and  idnow  as  tha  wood.  —  H.  B."     ^  74.  human  beanr:    "he  means  human 
beins,  that's  wut  he  means,     i  spose  he  kinder  thought  tha  wuz  human  beans  ware 
the  Xisie  [exile]  Poles  comes  from.—  H.  B."     U  85.  Jackson:  Andrew  Jackson  had 
died  two  years  before  but  his  spirit  might  be  supposed  to  be  leading  the  Demo 
cratic  party  still  —  or  perhaps  Mr.  Sawin  did  not  know  that  he  was  dead. 

(401)  no.  nip  per  =  dram,   drink.     U  114.  linkum  vity  =  lignum-vitae,  a  very 
hard  wood,  sometimes  hickory;  Sawin  means  that  he  would  use  a  hickery  cudgel. 

(401)  AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE.  The  scene  of  the  poem  is  Cambridge, 
Mass.,  the  poet's  birthplace  and  his  residence  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life. 

(407)  209.  the  Muses'  factories:  the  buildings  of  Harvard  University.  U  221. 
Coptic  =  Egyptian.  \  223.  Allston:  Washington  Allston,  the  American  painter 


6 14  AMERICAN  POEMS 


and  poet,  who  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life  in  Cambridge,  dying  there  in  1843. 
H  225.  Virgilium  vidi  tantum  =  "  Virgil  I  have  only  seen."  H  227.  Undine-like: 
Undine  was  a  water-spirit,  and  her  name  (from  Latin  "unda,"  "wave")  suggests  the 
undulatory,  tremulous  movements  of  water. 

(408)  236.  fire-new  mediavals:  new  buildings  in  mediaeval  style;  cf.  11.  218-21. 
If  237.  chestnut  tree:  this  is  the  same  tree  that  Longfellow  refers  to  in  "The  Village 
Blacksmith";  it  was  cut  down  in  1876.     H  239-46.     Cf.  "The  Village  Blacksmith," 
11.    19-24    (p.    236).     H  255.  Paul   Potter:     a   Dutch   painter    (1625-54).     H  263. 
ribboned  parchments  three:   from  a  school,  Harvard  College,  and  the  Harvard  Law 
School.     If  264.  collegisse  juvat  =  "it  pleases  me  to  have  gone  to  college."     t  267- 
80.  The  lines  allude  to  the  recent  death  of  Lowell's  first  child,  in  her  second  year. 

(409)  A  FABLE  FOR  CRITICS.     Line  1486-1532.     H  4.  Graylock:    a  mountain 
in  Massachusetts. 

(410)  THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.     "According  to  the  mythology  of  the 
Romancers,  the  San  Greal,  or  Holy  Grail,  was  the  cup  out  of  which  Jesus  partook 
of  the  last  supper  with  his  disciples.     It  was  brought  into  England  by  Joseph  of 
Arimathea,  and  remained  there,  an  object  of  pilgrimage  and  adoration,  for  many 
years  in  the  keeping  of  his  lineal  descendants.    It  was  incumbent  upon  those  who  had 
charge  of  it  to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and  deed;  but  one  of  the  keepers  having 
broken  this  condition,  the  Holy  Grail  disappeared.     From  that  time  it  was  a  favor 
ite  enterprise  of  the  knights  of  Arthur's  court  to  go  in  search  of  it.     Sir  Galahad 
was  at  last  successful  in  finding  it,  as  may  be  read  in  the  seventeenth  book  of  the 
Romance  of  King  Arthur  [Malory's  Morte  Darthur].     Tennyson  has  made  Sir 
Galahad  the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  exquisite  of  his  poems.     The  plot  (if  I  may 
give  that  name  to  anything  so  slight)  of  the  foregoing  poem  is  my  own;   and  to 
serve  its  purposes  I  have  enlarged  the  circle  of  competition  in  search  of  the  miracu 
lous  cup  in  such  a  manner  as  to  include,  not  only  other  persons  than  the  heroes  of 
the  Round  Table,  but  also  a  period  of  time  subsequent  to  the  date  of  King  Arthur's 
reign."— Lowell's  note  at  the  end  of  the  poem  in  the  1848  edition.     The  poem  of 
Tennyson's  to  which  Lowell  refers  is  the  lyric,  "Sir  Galahad";    the  idyll,  "The 
Holy  Grail,"  had  not  yet  been  written.     H  9,  10.  Cf.  Wordsworth's  "Intimations 
of  Immortality,"  1.  66,  "  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy." 

(411)  17,   18.  druid  wood  ....  benedicite:    the  Druids  were  priests  of  the 
ancient  Celtic  peoples,  and  their  place  of  worship  was  often  under  an  oak  or  in  a 
grove. 

(418)  307.  Beautiful  Gate:   "And  a  certain  man  lame  from  his  mother's  womb 
was  carried,  whom  they  laid  daily  at  the  gate  of  the  temple  which  is  called  Beautiful, 
to  ask  alms  of  them  that  entered  into  the  temple."— Acts  3:2.     H  308.  Himself  the 
Gate:  "I  am  the  door:   by  me  if  any  man  enter  in,  he  shall  be  saved." — John  10:9. 
«j  215.  "But  he  saith  unto  them,  It  is  I;  be  not  afraid." — John  6:  20. 

(419)  BEAVER  BROOK.     First  published  in  The  Anti-Slavery  Standard,  Janu 
ary  4,  1849. 

(420)  21.  Undine:    a  water-spirit,  in  a  story  of  that  name,  by  the  German 
author  Fouque,  published  in  1811. 

(421)  THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD.    First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly 
November,  1861,  from  which  the  text  is  here  taken.     If  10.  Odin's  hounds:  Odin  was 


NOTES  615 


thought  of,  in  northern  mythology,  as  god  of  the  wind,  who  hunted  in  tempests, 
accompanied  by  two  wolves,  or  hounds.  H  16.  the  ancient  Three:  the  Fates.  U  18. 
the  mystic  Tree:  "The  mighty  ash-tree,  Ygdrasill,  was  supposed  to  support  the  whole 
universe.  It  ....  had  three  immense  roots,  extending  one  into  Asgard  (the 
dwelling  of  the  gods),  the  other  into  Jotunheim  (the  abode  of  the  giants),  and  the 
third  to  Niffleheim  (the  regions  of  darkness  and  cold).  By  the  side  of  each  of  these 
roots  is  a  spring,  from  which  it  is  watered.  The  root  that  extends  into  Asgard  is 
carefully  tended  by  the  three  Norns,  goddesses  who  are  regarded  as  the  dispensers  of 
fate.  They  are  Urdur  (the  past),  Verdandi  (the  present),  Skuld  (the  future)." — 
Bulfinch,  The  Age  of  Fable. 

(422)  Thor's:  Thor,  eldest  son  of  Odin,  was  god  of  thunder;  he  had  a  hammer 
which  he  wielded  with  tremendous  might.     H  40.  Hcsper:  Hesperus,  as  the  evening 
star,  has  often  been  used  in  poetry  for  the  Western  world,  or,  as  here,  for  the  greatest 
nation  there.     \  56-58.  Cf.  Tennyson's  "GEnone"  (1832,  1842),  11.  142,  143: 

Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 

1f62.  Denounce  =  announce. 

(423)  66,  67.     The  eagle,  the  emblem  of  the  United  States,  was  also,  in  classic 
mythology,  the  bird  sacred  to  Jove  and  bore  his  thunderbolts. 

(424)  THE  COURTIN'.     "The  only  attempt  I  had  ever  made  at  anything  like  a 
pastoral  (if  that  may  be  called  an  attempt  which  was  the  result  almost  of  pure 
accident)  was  in  'The  CourtinV     While  the  introduction  to  the  First  Series  [of 
Biglow  Papers]  was  going  through  the  press,  I  received  word  from  the  printer  that 
there  was  a  blank  page  left  which  must  be  filled.     I  sat  down  at  once  and  impro 
vised  another  fictitious  'notice  of  the  press,'  in  which,  because  verse  would  fill  up 
space  more  cheaply  than  prose,  I  inserted  an  extract  from  a  supposed  ballad  of  Mr. 
Biglow.    I  kept  no  copy  of  it,  and  the  printer,  as  directed,  cut  it  off  when  the  gap  was 
filled.     Presently  I  began  to  receive  letters  asking  for  the  rest  of  it,  sometimes  for 
the  balance  of  it.     I  had  none;  but  to  answer  such  demands  I  patched  a  conclusion 
upon  it  in  a  later  edition.     Those  who  had  only  the  first  continued  to  importune  me. 
Afterward,  being  asked  to  write  it  out  as  an  autograph  for  the  Baltimore  Sanitary 
Commission  Fair,  I  added  other  verses,  into  some  of  which  I  infused  a  little  more 
sentiment  in  a  homely  way,  and  after  a  fashion  completed  it  by  sketching  in  the 
characters  and  making  a  connected  story.     Most  likely  I  have  spoiled  it,  but  I 
shall  put  it  at  the  end  of  this  Introduction,  to  answer  once  for  all  those  kindly 
importunings." — Introduction  to  The  Biglow  Papers,  Second  Series,  1866  edition. 

(427)  ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  HARVARD  COMMEMORATION.     Published  in  The 
Atlantic  Monthly,  September,  1865,  from  which  the  text  is  here  taken;  a  comparison 
with  the  later  text  will  show  significant  changes.     On  July  21,  1865,  exercises  were 
held  at  Harvard  College  in  memory  of  the  ninety-three  sons  of  Harvard  who  had 
died  as  Union  soldiers  in  the  Civil  War;   Lowell  read  this  poem,  which  produced  a 
powerful    impression.       H  n.    feathered   words:     cf.    "Weak-winged"    (1.    i)    and 
Homer's  frequent  phrase  ."winged  words." 

(428)  35,  36.     Harvard  College  was  founded  in  1636,  when  Cambridge  was 
little  more  than  a  clearing  in  the  woods.     ^  37.   Veritas:  "On  the  27th  of  December, 


6i6  AMERICAN  POEMS 


1643,  a  College  seal  was  adopted,  having,  as  at  present,  three  open  books  on  the 
field  of  an  heraldic  shield,  with  the  motto  'Veritas'  inscribed.  The  books  were 
probably  intended  to  represent  the  Bible."— Josiah  Quincy,  The  History  of  Harvard 
University,  Vol.  I,  p.  48. 

(429)  74,  75.     Cf.  Shelley's  "Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty,"  11.  29-31: 

Frail  spells,  whose  uttered  charm  might  not  avail  to  sever, 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 

1  84.     Cf.  Macbeth,  V.  v.  24-26: 

Life  's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
And  then  is  heard  no  more. 

^  88-104.     Cf.  Wordsworth's  " Intimations  of  Immortality,"  11.  146-63: 

High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised; 

But  for  those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing, 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  Eternal  Silence;  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never, 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy. 
Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither. 

U  105.     Whither:  i.e.,  by  what  route. 

(430)  115.     Cf.  Milton's  sonnet,  "To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell,"  11.  10,  n: 

Peace  hath  her  victories 
No  less  renowned  than  War. 

U  110-22.  See  I  Kings  19:6,  and  Isa.  6:6.  H  147-91.  The  portrait  of  Lincoln  in 
these  lines  may  be  compared  with  the  following  passages  from  an  article  by  Lowell 
in  The  North  American  Review,  January,  1864:  "The  hereditary  ruler  in  any  criti 
cal  emergency  may  reckon  on  the  inexhaustible  resources  of  prestige,  of  sentiment, 
of  superstition,  of  dependent  interest,  while  the  new  man  must  slowly  and  painfully 
create  all  these  out  of  the  unwilling  material  around  him,  by  superiority  of  char 
acter,  by  patient  singleness  of  purpose,  by  sagacious  presentiment  of  popular 
tendencies  and  instinctive  sympathy  with  the  national  character.  Mr.  Lincoln's 

task  was  one  of  peculiar  and  exceptional  difficulty Never  did  a  President 

enter  upon  office  with  less  means  at  his  command,  outside  his  own  strength  of  heart 
and  steadiness  of  understanding,  for  inspiring  confidence  in  the  people,  and  so 


NOTES  617 


winning  it  for  himself,  than  Mr.  Lincoln.  All  that  was  known  of  him  was  that  he 
was  a  good  stump-speaker,  nominated  for  his  availability — that  is,  because  he  had  no 
history, — and  chosen  by  a  party  with  whose  more  extreme  opinions  he  was  not  in 

sympathy All  that  he  did  was  sure  to  be  virulently  attacked  as  ultra  by  one 

side;  all  that  he  left  undone,  to  be  stigmatized  as  proof  of  lukewarmness  and  back 
sliding  by  the  other.  Meanwhile  he  was  to  carry  on  a  truly  colossal  war  by  means 
of  both;  he  was  to  disengage  the  country  from  diplomatic  entanglements  of  unprece 
dented  peril  undisturbed  by  the  help  or  the  hinderance  of  either,  and  to  win  from  the 
crowning  dangers  of  his  administration,  in  the  confidence  of  the  people,  the  means  of 
his  safety  and  their  own.  He  has  contrived  to  do  it,  and  perhaps  none  of  our  Presi 
dents  since  Washington  has  stood  so  firm  in  the  confidence  of  the  people  as  he  does 
after  three  years  of  stormy  administration.  Mr.  Lincoln's  policy  was  a  tentative 
one,  and  rightly  so.  He  laid  down  no  programme  which  must  compel  him  to  be 
either  inconsistent  or  unwise,  no  cast-iron  theorem  to  which  circumstances  must  be 
fitted  as  they  rose  or  else  be  useless  to  his  ends.  He  seemed  to  have  chosen  Mazarin's 
Jiotto,  Le  temps  et  moi.  The  moi,  to  be  sure,  was  not  very  prominent  at  first;  but 
it  has  grown  more  and  more  so,  till  the  world  is  beginning  to  be  persuaded  that  it 
stands  for  a  character  of  marked  individuality  and  capacity  for  affairs.  Time  was 
his  prime-minister,  and,  we  began  to  think,  at  one  period,  his  general-in-chief  also. 
At  first  he  was  so  slow  that  he  tired  out  all  those  who  see  no  evidence  of  progress 
but  in  blowing  up  the  engine;  then  he  was  so  fast  that  he  took  the  breath  away 
from  those  who  think  there  is  no  getting  on  safely  while  there  is  a  spark  of  fire  under 
the  boilers.  God  is  the  only  being  who  has  time  enough;  but  a  prudent  man,  who 
knows  how  to  seize  occasion,  can  commonly  make  a  shift  to  find  as  much  as  he 
needs.  Mr.  Lincoln,  as  it  seems  to  us  in  reviewing  his  career,  though  we  have 
sometimes  in  our  impatience  thought  otherwise,  has  always  waited,  as  a  wise  man 
should,  till  the  right  moment  brought  up  all  his  reserves.  Semper  nocuit  dijferre 
paratis  is  a  sound  axiom;  but  the  really  efficacious  man  will  also  be  sure  to  know 

when  he  is  not  ready,  and  be  firm  against  all  persuasion  and  reproach  till  he  is 

True,  there  is  a  popular  image  of  an  impossible  He,  in  whose  plastic  hands  the 
submissive  destinies  of  mankind  become  as  wax,  and  to  whose  commanding  neces 
sity  the  toughest  facts  yield  with  the  graceful  pliancy  of  fiction;  but  in  real  life  we 
commonly  find  that  the  men  who  control  circumstances,  as  it  is  called,  are  those 
who  have  learned  to  allow  for  the  influence  of  their  eddies,  and  have  the  nerve  to 
turn  them  to  account  at  the  happy  instant.  Mr.  Lincoln's  perilous  task  has  been  to 
carry  a  rather  shackly  raft  through  the  rapids,  making  fast  the  unrulier  logs  as  he 
could  snatch  opportunity,  and  the  country  is  to  be  congratulated  that  he  did  not 
think  it  his  duty  to  run  straight  at  all  hazards,  but  cautiously  to  assure  himself  with 
his  setting-pole  where  the  main  current  was  and  keep  steadily  to  that.  He  is  still 
in  wild  water,  but  we  have  faith  that  his  skill  and  sureness  of  eye  will  bring  him 

out  right  at  last Mr.  Lincoln  dallied  with  his  decision  [about  emancipation] 

perhaps  longer  than  seemed  needful  to  those  on  whom  its  awful  responsibility  was 
not  to  rest;  but  when  he  made  it,  it  was  worthy  of  his  cautious  but  sure-footed 
understanding." 

(431)  160.  West:  i.e.,  the  Occident,  the  New  World. 

(433)  243,244.  See  Num.  13.     U  245.  Cf.  Gray's  "  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country 


6i8  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Church- Yard,"  1.  36,  "The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave."  If  248.  Cf. 
Shelley's  "Adonais,"  11.  343-51' 

Peace,  peace!  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep — 

He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life. 

T  is  we  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 

With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 

And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 

Invulnerable  nothings.     We  decay 

Like  corpses  in  a  charnel;   fear  and  grief 

Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 

And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living  clay. 

(435)  307.  Cf.  Mark  5:24-34.  If  318.  Katahdin  ....  Monadnock  .... 
Whiteface:  mountains  in  Maine,  New  Hampshire,  and  New  York,  respectively. 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"  We  have  here  a  volume  of  poems  of  a  loftier  rank  throughout  ....  than  any 
we  have  witnessed  these  many  long  days.  In  fact  we  find  in  it  beauties  and  associa 
tions  peculiar  to  the  writer  himself,  beauties  which,  with  all  our  poets,  we  have 

never  seen  before We  find  here  also  precepts  of  wisdom  and  a  trust  in 

moral  strength  to  guide  our  lives,  a  delightful  freedom  from  all  repining,  shed,  like 
dew  upon  sunburnt  flowers,  over  the  hearts  of  world-stricken  men." — The  Southern 
Literary  Messenger,  May  and  June,  1841. 

"Neither  the  imagery  nor  the  music  are  original,  but  the  same  is  true  of  the 
early  poems  of  Byron;  there  is  too  much  dwelling  on  minute  yet  commonplace 
details,  so  was  it  with  Coleridge  before  he  served  a  severe  apprenticeship  to  his  art. 
The  great  musicians  composed  much  that  stands  in  the  same  relation  to  their 
immortal  works  that  these  productions  perhaps  may  to  those  of  Mr.  Lowell's  riper 
age — superficial,  full  of  obvious  cadences  and  obvious  thoughts;  but  sweet,  fluent, 
in  a  large  style,  and  breathing  the  life  of  religious  love." — The  Dial,  July,  1841. 

"This  new  volume  of  poems  by  Mr.  Lowell  will  place  him,  in  the  estimation 
of  all  whose  opinion  he  will  be  likely  to  value,  at  the  very  head  of  the  poets  of  America. 
For  our  own  part  we  have  not  the  slightest  hesitation  in  saying  that  we  regard  the 
'Legend  of  Brittany'  as  by  far  the  finest  poetical  work,  of  equal  length,  which  the 

country  has  produced The  defects  observable  in  the  '  Legend  of  Brittany ' 

are,  chiefly,  consequent  upon  the  error  of  didacticism.  After  every  few  words  of 

narration  comes  a  page  of  morality The  other  demerits  are  minor  ones. 

The  versification  is  now  and  then  slightly  deficient — sometimes  in  melody,  some 
times  in  force.  The  drawing  out  of  'power,'  'heaven,'  and  other  similar  words  into 

two  syllables  is  sure  to  enfeeble  the  verses  in  which  they  are  so  drawn  out 

But  we  feel  ashamed  of  alluding  to  trifles  such  as  these  in  the  presence  of  beauties  so 

numerous  and  so  true We  repeat  that  he  has  given  evidence  of  at  least  as 

high  poetical  genius  as  any  man  in  America — if  not  a  loftier  genius  than  any." — 
Edgar  A.  Poe,  in  Graham's  Magazine,  March,  1844. 

"The  successive  publications  of  Mr.  Lowell  show  a  marked  progress,  and 
encourage  us  to  hope  for  a  rich  harvest  when  the  soil  shall  be  cultivated  to  the 

utmost  and  the  fruit  have  been  allowed  to  reach  its  full  maturity The  haze 

that  formerly  dimmed  many  of  his  grandest  pictures  has  now  almost  entirely  dis- 


NOTES  619 


appeared,  and  their  outlines  stand  forth  with  sharp  distinctness  in  a  bright  atmo 
sphere Language  has  become  more  obedient  to  his  will,  and  he  executes  his 

highest  purposes  without  straining  its  idiom  or  painfully  ransacking  its  vocabulary. 
Many  of  the  pieces  in  this  volume  will  support  as  high  a  reputation  as  belongs  to 
some  of  the  most  honored  names  on  the  roll  of  English  poets." — The  North  American 
Review,  April,  1848. 

"We  are  not  quite  sure  that  The  Biglow  Papers  will  be  added  to  the  list  of 
successful  humorous  publications.  All  the  persons  concerned  in  them  have  a  political 
object  in  view,  and  are  so  earnest  in  the  pursuit  of  it  that  they  sometimes  quite 

forget  that  their  only  vocation  is  to  laugh  at  the  follies  of  others They  were 

received  with  merited  favor  from  their  droll  and  felicitous  portraiture  of  the  Yankee 
character  and  dialect  and  their  successful  hits  at  our  national  passion  for  military 
glory.  Political  opponents,  as  well  as  friends,  laughed  loud  and  long  at  Birdofredom 
Sawin's  letters  describing  his  experience  in  the  wars  and  the  mishaps  that  he  en 
countered  before  he  could  make  his  way  home  again.  We  must  quote  a  portion  of 

his  first  letter  from  Mexico  [seep.  400,  11.  51-86] This  is  very  fair  fun.  The 

rhymes  are  as  startling  and  felicitous  as  any  in  'Hudibras,'  and  the  quaint  drollery 
of  the  illustrations  is  in  admirable  keeping  with  the  whole  character  of  the  forlorn 
recruit  from  Massachusetts.  Of  the  almost  numberless  imitations  of  the  Yankee 

dialect  this  is  decidedly  the  best  that  we  have  seen Hosea  Biglow,  with  his 

father  'Zekiel,  and  Birdofredom  Sawin  are  true  and  lifelike  creations,  admirably 
sustained  throughout  and  made  up  of  materials  with  which  the  writer  is  evidently 
familiar.  But  the  Parson  is  a  quaint  jumble  of  half  a  dozen  characters  whom 
we  know  only  in  books,  and  is  a  tedious  old  fellow  to  boot.  There  is  not  a  bit  of 
the  Yankee  in  him,  and  his  elaborate  pedantry  is  far-fetched  and  wearisome  to 

the  last  degree We  pass  to  the  next  book  on  our  list,  'A  Fable  for  Critics.' 

Common  rumor  attributes  it  to  the  same  pen  which  wrote  'The  Biglow  Papers'; 
and  if  there  was  no  other  reason  for  this  conjecture  but  the  author's  extraordinary 
command  of  Hudibrastic  rhymes,  and  the  easy  flow  of  his  versification,  we  should 
think  it  must  be  well  founded.  The  'Fable,'  which,  by  the  way,  is  no  fable  at  all, 
is  really  a  very  pleasant  and  sparkling  poem,  abounding  in  flashes  of  brilliant  satire, 
edged  with  wit  enough  to  delight  even  its  victims.  It  is  far  more  spirited  and 
entertaining  than  one  would  expect  from  the  labored  conceits  of  its  title-page  and 
preface." — The  North  American  Review,  January,  1849. 

"Mr.  Lowell  has  a  lively  fancy,  a  quick  eye  for  material  beauty,  or,  as  we  say, 
the  beauties  of  nature,  and  considerable  facility  of  expression.  He  can  see  and 
express  the  beauty  of  a  daisy,  of  the  bee  collecting  honey,  of  cows  feeding  in  the 
pasture,  of  the  cock  flapping  his  wings  and  crowing,  and  even  something  of  the  life 
of  a  spring  morning,  the  sultriness  of  a  summer  noon,  and  of  the  golden  hues  of  an 
autumnal  sunset;  but  beyond  or  above  he  does  not  appear  able  to  go.  When  he 
aspires,  he  falls;  and  when  he  seeks  to  express  the  beauty  of  moral  truth,  he  only 
proves  that  he  has  never  clearly  and  distinctly  beheld  it.  His  glory  is  that  he 
believes  in  moral  truth — that  he  believes  that  there  is  the  Divine  and  eternal  idea 
back  of  the  ever-changing  appearances  which  flit  past  his  vision;  but  his  misfortune 
is  that  he  has  never  beheld  it — that  he  has,  at  best,  caught  only  a  partial  and 
transient  glimpse  of  it With  solid  training  under  the  direction  of  religion 


620  AMERICAN  POEMS 


and  sound  philosophy,  which  should  have  given  elevation  to  his  soul,  clearness  to 
his  view,  firmness  to  his  will,  and  sanctity  to  his  aims,  he  would  have  been  a  poet." — 
Brownson's  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1849,  in  a  notice  of  "The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal." 

"Mr  James  Russell  Lowell  belongs  to  a  minute  species  of  literary  insect  which 
is  plentifully  produced  by  the  soil  and  climate  of  Boston.  He  has  published  certain 
'  Poems' ;  they  are  copies  of  Keats  and  Tennyson  and  Wordsworth,  and  baser  or 

worse  done  imitations  the  imitative  tribe  have  never  bleated  forth With 

the  name  of  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell  the  public  is  better  acquainted  from  its  fre 
quent  appearance  in  the  proceedings  of  abolitionist  meetings  in  Boston,  cheek  by 
jowl  with  the  signatures  of  free  negroes  and  runaway  slaves." — The  Southern  Liter 
ary  Messenger,  March,  1850. 

"What  one  of  his  literary  contemporaries,  though  each  may  have  some  gift 
or  grace  in  larger  measure  than  he,  makes  the  reader  feel  so  strong  a  sense  of  being 
face  to  face  with  a  superior  man — a  man  really  of  genius?  Is  there  any  one  of 
them  to  whom  we  so  readily  surrender  ourselves  as  feeling  the  charm  of  a  fine,  high 
nature,  the  easy  power  of  an  intellect  so  clear,  so  acute — at  once  tender,  delicate, 
and  of  masculine  strength  and  energy, — the  attraction  of  a  heart  so  honest,  so  warm 
and  wide-open  and  genial  ?  ....  It  is -in  his  character  of  a  satirical  and  humorous 
poet  that  we  now  have  to  do  with  him,  for  a  second  series  of  the  famous  Biglow 
Papers  is  just  put  forth.  Certainly  no  one  will  gainsay  us  when  we  say  that  in  this 
particular  walk  no  one  can  be  for  a  moment  compared  to  Lowell.  First  and  last, 
hundreds  of  people  have  attempted  the  portraiture  of  the  Yankee;  ....  not 
withstanding  all  these  and  many  more,  the  Yankee  would  still  be  awaiting  the  true 
artist  if  it  were  not  for  Professor  Lowell." — The  Nation,  November  15,  1866. 

"The  work  of  which  we  are  now  speaking  [The  Biglow  Papers,  Second  Series]  is 
the  lustiest  product  of  the  national  humour;  it  is  Yankee  through  and  through, 
indigenous  as  the  flowers  of  the  soil,  native  as  the  note  of  the  bob-a-link.  The 
author  is  a  poet  of  considerable  repute,  who  has  written  much  beautiful  verse.  But 
he  has  never  fulfilled  his  early  promise  in  serious  poetry.  In  this  book  alone  has 
he  reached  his  full  stature,  and  written  with  the  utmost  pith  and  power." — The 
Quarterly  Review,  January,  1867. 

"Many  years  ago,  being  in  profound  ignorance  of  all  things  American,  we 
happened  to  stumble  upon  a  copy  of  The  Biglow  Papers,  then  fresh  from  the  press. 
The  allusions  to  contemporary  political  details  were  as  obscure  to  us  as  an  Egyptian 

hieroglyphic But  dark  as  the  allusions  might  be,  there  was  a  spirit  and 

humour  in  Mr.  Biglow's  utterances  which  shone  through  all  superficial  perplexities. 
Whatever  might  be  the  cause  of  his  excitement,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  tha 

amazing  shrewdness  of  his  homely  satire In  short  we  enjoyed  the  rart 

pleasure  of  the  revelation  of  a  new  intellectual  type,  and  one  of  no  common  vigour 

and  originality Later  familiarity  ....  has  only  increased  our  affection 

for  The  Biglow  Papers.  Indeed,  we  find  it  difficult  to  think  of  any  exact  parallel  for 

their  characteristic  merits The  little  fragment  called  'The  Courtin ','  which, 

as  Mr.  Lowell  informs  us,  was  struck  off  to  fill  up  a  blank  page,  is  simply  perfect  in 

its  kind In  the  old  shape,  and  possibly  in  the  new,  it  is  a  charming  example 

of  a  very  rare  form  of  excellence.  It  is  as  dainty  as  an  English  song  of  the  seven 
teenth  century;  and  the  Yankee  dialect  gives  it  the  true  rustic  flavour,  in  place  of 


NOTES  621 


the  old  spice  of  pastoral  affectation There  is  indeed  a  criticism  which  may 

be  made  upon  some  of  these  poems,  namely  that  they  are  not  quite  poetry.  Some 
of  them  are  perhaps  rather  too  rhetorical,  or  contain  too  much  moralizing,  to  be 

sufficiently  disconnected  from  prose Nor  can  we  quite  refrain  from  another 

conclusion.  Nobody  understands  better  than  Mr.  Lowell  the  difference  between 
a  pump  and  a  spring;  between  writing  because  you  can't  help  it,  and  writing  because 
you  are  resolved  to  write  .  .  .  .  ;  but  one  may  be  permitted  to  doubt  whether 
Mr.  Lowell  always  remembered  it,  or  rather  always  acted  up  to  his  knowledge,  in 
the  second  series  of  Biglow  Papers.  The  humour  is  there,  but  it  is  perceptibly  more 
forced,  and  Birdofredom  Sawin  seems  to  have  lost  something  of  his  old  rollicking 

spirits We  doubt  whether  he  [Lowell]  could  heartily  enjoy  any  district 

beyond  the  range  of  the  bobolink.  His  descriptive  poetry,  excellent  as  it  is,  possibly 
loses  something  in  popularity  from  this  kind  of  provincialism,  for  the  most  vivid 

touches  are  those  which  imply  a  certain  amount  of  local  knowledge He 

prefers  the  future  to  the  past,  and  the  common,  though  not  the  vulgar,  to  the 
romantic.  Such,  for  example,  is  the  burden  of  the  'Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,'  a  poem, 
which,  with  great  beauties,  is  perhaps  rather  too  obtrusively  didactic.  But  in  the 
'  Commemoration  Ode '  he  has  found  an  appropriate  occasion  and  form  for  pouring 
out  his  strongest  feelings  in  masculine  verse.  One  or  two  stanzas  even  here  may 
be  a  little  too  didactic;  and  the  style  is  rather  broad  and  manly  than  marked  by 
the  exquisite  felicities  which  betray  the  hand  of  a  perfect  master.  But  through 
out  the  ode  the  stream  of  song  flows  at  once  strong  and  deep.  The  poet  is  speaking 
from  his  heart,  and  with  a  solemnity,  a  pathos,  and  elevation  of  feeling  worthy  of  a 
great  event." — The  Cornhill  Magazine,  January,  1875. 


BAYARD  TAYLOR 

The  text  is  from  the  1865  edition. 

(436)  THE  FIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL  MAR.  First  published  in  The  Literary  World, 
March  n,  1848.  "In  the  Californian  Ballads  I  have  attempted  to  give  a  poetical 
expression  to  the  rude  but  heroic  physical  life  of  the  vast  desert  and  mountain 
region  stretching  from  the  Cordilleras  of  New  Mexico  to  the  Pacific.  This  country, 
in  the  sublime  desolation  of  its  sandy  plains  and  stony  mountains,  streaked  here 
and  there  with  valleys  of  almost  tropical  verdure,  and  the  peculiar  character  of  its 
semi-civilized  people,  seemed  to  afford  a  field  in  which  the  vigorous  spirit  of  the 
old  ballad  might  be  transplanted,  to  revive  and  flourish  with  a  new  and  sturdy 
growth." — Preface  to  Rhymes,  Ballads,  and  Other  Poems,  1849.  P&so  del  Mar  = 
"the  pass  of  the  sea."  ^  9.  pescador** fisherman. 

(439)  To  THE  NILE. 

(440)  17.  Osirian  festivals:  Osiris,  the  chief  god  of  the  Egyptians,  was  honored 
by  magnificent  annual  festivals  having  reference  to  the  subsidence  of  the  Nile. 
H  1 8.  Memnon's  music:  according  to  fable,  when  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  touched 
the  colossal  statue  of  Memnon  at  Thebes,  it  gave  forth  a  musical  sound.    ^  19. 
Cambyses:    king  of  Persia,   who  defeated  the  king  of  Egypt  in  525  B.C.,  and 
devastated  the  country.     ^  25.  pylons:    towers,  flanking  a  gateway. 

(440)  THE  QUAKER  WIDOW. 


622  AMERICAN  POEMS 


(441)  28.  Hicksite:  the  Hicksite  Quakers  (an  American  sect  founded  by  Elias 
Hicks,  in  1827)  held  doctrines  similar  to  the  Unitarians,  t  37~4O-  The  lines  describe 
the  customs  of  a  Quaker  wedding  in  the  meeting-house.  "In  the  presence  of  the 
Lord":  the  opening  words  of  the  form  by  which  the  Quaker  bridegroom  and  bride 
take  each  other  in  marriage. 

WALT  WHITMAN 

"After  continued  personal  ambition  and  effort,  as  a  young  fellow,  to  enter  with 
the  rest  into  competition  for  the  usual  rewards,  business,  political,  literary,  &c., 
....  I  found  myself  remaining  possess'd,  at  the  age  of  thirty-one  to  thirty-three, 

with  a  special  desire  and  conviction This  was  a  feeling  or  ambition  to 

articulate  and  faithfully  express  in  literary  or  poetic  form,  and  uncompromisingly, 
my  own  physical,  emotional,  moral,  intellectual,  and  aesthetic  Personality,  in  the 
midst  of  and  tallying  the  momentous  spirit  and  facts  of  its  immediate  days  and  of 
current  America— and  to  exploit  that  Personality,  identified  with  place  and  date,  in 
a  far  more  candid  and  comprehensive  sense  than  any  hitherto  poem  or  book.  Per 
haps  this  is  in  brief,  or  suggests,  all  I  have  sought  to  do.  Given  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  with  the  United  States,  and  what  they  furnish  as  area  and  points  of  view, 
'Leaves  of  Grass'  is,  or  seeks  to  be,  simply  a  faithful  and  doubtless  self-will'd 
record.  In  the  midst  of  all  it  gives  one  man's — the  author's — identity,  ardors, 
observations,  faiths,  and  thoughts,  color'd  hardly  at  all  with  any  decided  coloring 
from  other  faiths  or  other  identities.  Plenty  of  songs  had  been  sung— beautiful, 
matchless  songs — adjusted  to  other  lands  than  these,  another  spirit  and  stage  of 
evolution;  but  I  would  sing,  and  leave  out  or  put  in,  quite  solely  with  reference  to 
America  and  to-day.  Modern  science  and  democracy  seem'd  to  be  throwing  out 
their  challenge  to  poetry  to  put  them  in  its  statements  in  contradistinction  to  the 
songs  and  myths  of  the  past.  As  I  see  it  now  (perhaps  too  late),  I  have  unwittingly 
•aken  up  that  challenge  and  made  an  attempt  at  such  statements — which  I  certainly 
urould  not  assume  to  do  now,  knowing  more  clearly  what  it  means.  For  grounds 
for  '  Leaves  of  Grass '  as  a  poem,  I  abandon'd  the  conventional  themes,  which  do  not 
appear  in  it:  none  of  the  stock  ornamentation,  or  choice  plots  of  love  or  war,  or 
high  exceptional  personages  of  Old- World  song;  nothing,  as  I  may  say,  for  beauty's 
sake — no  legend  or  myth  or  romance,  nor  euphemism  nor  rhyme, — but  the  broadest 
average  of  humanity  and  its  identities  in  the  now  ripening  Nineteenth  Century,  and 
especially  in  each  of  their  countless  examples  and  practical  occupations  in  the 
Unites  States  to-day 

"The  New  World  receives  with  joy  the  poems  of  the  antique,  with  European 
feudalism's  rich  fund  of  epics,  plays,  ballads — seeks  not  in  the  least  to  deaden  or 
displace  those  voices  from  our  ear  and  area — holds  them  indeed  as  indispensable 
studies,  influences,  records,  comparisons.  But  though  the  dawn-dazzle  of  the  sun 
of  literature  is  in  those  poems  for  us  of  to-day:  though  perhaps  the  best  parts  of 
current  character  in  nations,  social  groups,  or  any  man's  or  woman's  individuality, 
Old  World  or  New,  are  from  them;  and  though  if  I  were  ask'd  to  name  the  most 
precious  bequest  to  current  American  civilization  from  all  the  hitherto  ages,  I  am 
not  sure  but  I  would  name  those  old  and  less  ok1  songs  ferried  hither  from  east  and 


NOTES  623 


west, — some  serious  words  and  debits  remain,  some  acrid  considerations  demand  a 
hearing.  Of  the  great  poems  receiv'd  from  abroad  and  from  the  ages,  and  to-day 
enveloping  and  penetrating  America,  is  there  one  that  is  consistent  with  these 
United  States,  or  essentially  applicable  to  them  as  they  are  and  are  to  be  ?  Is  there 
one  whose  underlying  basis  is  not  a  denial  and  insult  to  democracy  ?  .  .  .  . 

"It  is  certain,  I  say,  that,  although  I  had  made  a  start  before,  only  from  the 
occurrence  of  the  Secession  War,  and  what  it  show'd  me  as  by  flashes  of  lightning, 
with  the  emotional  depths  it  sounded  and  arous'd  (of  course  I  don't  mean  in  my 
own  heart  only;  I  saw  it  just  as  plainly  in  others,  in  millions),  that  only  from  the 
strong  flare  and  provocation  of  that  war's  sights  and  scenes  the  final  reasons-for- 
being  of  an  autochtonic  and  passionate  song  definitely  came  forth 

"The  word  I  myself  put  primarily  for  the  description  of  them  [his  poems],  as 
they  stand  at  last,  is  the  word  Suggestiveness.  I  round  and  finish  little  if  anything; 
and  could  not,  consistently  with  my  scheme.  The  reader  will  always  have  his  or 
her  part  to  do,  just  as  much  as  I  have  had  mine.  I  seek  less  to  state  or  display 
any  theme  or  thought,  and  more  to  bring  you,  reader,  into  the  atmosphere 
of  the  theme  or  thought— there  to  pursue  your  own  flight.  Another  impetus- 
word  is  Comradeship  as  for  all  lands,  and  in  a  more  commanding  and 
acknowledg'd  sense  than  hitherto.  Other  word-signs  would  be  Good  Cheer,  Content, 

and  Hope I  say  the  profoundest  service  that  poems  or  any  other  writings 

can  do  for  their  reader  is  not  merely  to  satisfy  the  intellect,  or  supply  something 
polish'd  and  interesting,  nor  even  to  depict  great  passions  or  persons  or  events,  but 
to  fill  him  with  vigorous  and  clean  manliness,  religiousness,  and  give  him  good  heart 
as  a  radical  possession  and  habit.  The  educated  world  seems  to  have  been  growing 
more  and  more  ennuyed  for  ages,  leaving  to  our  time  the  inheritance  of  it  all. 
Fortunately  there  is  the  original  inexhaustible  fund  of  Suoyancy,  normally  resident 

in  the  race,  forever  eligible  to  be  appeal'd  to  and  relied  on 

.  "While  I  can  not  understand  it  or  argue  it  out,  I  fully  believe  in  a  clue  and  pur 
pose  in  Nature,  entire  and  several;  and  that  invisible  spiritual  results,  just  as  real 
and  definite  as  the  visible,  eventuate  all  concrete  life  and  all  materialism,  through 
Time.  My  book  ought  to  emanate  buoyancy  and  gladness  legitimately  enough, 
for  it  was  grown  out  of  those  elements,  and  has  been  the  comfort  of  my  life  since  it 
was  originally  commenced.  One  main  genesis-motive  of  the  'Leaves'  was  my  con 
viction  (just  as  strong  to-day  as  ever)  that  the  crowning  growth  of  the  United  States 
is  to  be  spiritual  and  heroic.  To  help  start  and  favor  that  growth— or  even  to  call 
attention  to  it  or  the  need  of  it — is  the  beginning,  middle,  and  final  purpose  of  the 
poems."— Walt  Whitman,  "A  Backward  Glance  o'er  Travel'd  Roads,"  1888. 

The  text  is  from  the  1891  edition. 

(443)  SONG  OF  MYSELF.     Section  i;   Section  21;   Section  32,  11.  1-8;   Section 
33, 11.  113-23,  135-46;  Section  45, 11.  11-31;  Section  46,  11.  20-22.     U  6-13.   These 
lines  were  added  in  1881. 

(444)  42-44.  Cf.   Carlyle's  "Characteristics":    "Self-contemplation,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  infallibly  the  symptom  of  disease,  be  it  or  be  it  not  the  sign  of  cure. 
An  unhealthy  Virtue  is  one  that  consumes  itself  to  leanness  in  repenting  and  anxiety, 
....  whereas  the  sole  concern  is  to  walk  continually  forward  and  make  more  way. 
If  in  any  sphere  of  man's  life,  then  in  the  Moral  sphere,  as  the  inmost  and  mosl 


624  AMERICAN  POEMS 


vital  of  all,  it  is  good  that  there  be  wholeness;  that  there  be  unconsciousness,  which 
is  the  evidence  of  this." 

(446)  FACES.     Section  5.     The  subject  of  the  lines  is  Whitman's  mother. 

(453)  STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOK.  Section  4,  11.  5-0;  Section  5,  11.  1-9. 
Cf.  Whitman's  "A  Backward  Glance  o'er  Travel'd  Roads"  (1888):  "Later,  at 
intervals,  summers  and  falls,  I  used  to  go  off,  sometimes  for  a  week  at  a  stretch, 
down  in  the  country  or  to  Long  Island's  seashores:  there,  in  the  presence  of  out 
door  influences,  I  went  over  thoroughly  the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  and  absorb'd 
(probably  to  better  advantage  for  me  than  in  any  library  or  indoor  room — it  makes 
such  difference  where  you  read)  Shakspere,  Ossian,  the  best  translated  versions  I 
could  get  of  Homer,  Eschylus,  Sophocles,  the  old  German  Nibelungen,  the  ancient 

Hindoo  poems,  and  one  or  two  other  masterpieces,  Dante's  among  them 

(I  have  wonder'd  since  why  I  was  not  overwhelm'd  by  those  mighty  masters. 
Likely  because  I  read  them,  as  described,  in  the  full  presence  of  Nature,  under  the 
sun,  with  the  far-spreading  landscape  and  vistas,  or  the  sea  rolling  in.) "  Cf.  also 
Emerson's  "The  American  Scholar":  "Our  day  of  dependeace,  our  long  apprentice 
ship  to  the  learning  of  other  lands,  draws  to  a  close.  The  millions,  that  around  us 
are  rushing  into  life,  cannot  always  be  fed  on  the  sere  remains  of  foreign  harvests. 

Events,  actions,  arise,  that  must  be  sung,  that  will  sing  themselves Books 

are  the  best  of  things,  well  used;  abused,  among  the  worst.  What  is  the  right  use? 
What  is  the  one  end,  which  all  means  go  to  effect  ?  They  are  for  nothing  but  to 
inspire.  I  had  better  never  see  a  book  than  to  be  warped  by  its  attraction  clean 
out  of  my  own  orbit,  and  made  a  satellite  instead  of  a  system." 

(462)  WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOCKYARD  BLOOM'D.  "I  see  the  President 
almost  every  day,  as  I  happen  to  live  where  he  passes  to  or  from  his  lodgings  out  of 

town The  party  makes  no  great  show  in  uniform  or  horses.  Mr.  Lincoln 

on  the  saddle  generally  rides  a  good-sized,  easy-going  gray  horse,  is  dress'd  in  plain 
black,  somewhat  rusty  and  dusty,  wears  a  black  stiff  hat,  and  looks  about  as  ordinary 

in  attire,  &c.,  as  the  commonest  man I  see  very  plainly  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S 

dark  brown  face,  with  the  deep-cut  lines,  the  eyes,  always  to  me  with  a  deep  latent 
sadness  in  the  expression.  We  have  got  so  that  we  exchange  bows,  and  very  cordial 

ones They  pass'd  me  once  very  close,  and  I  saw  the  President  in  the  face 

fully,  as  they  were  moving  slowly,  and  his  look,  though  abstracted,  happen'd  to  be 
directed  steadily  in  my  eye.  He  bow'd  and  smiled,  but  far  beneath  his  smile  I 
noticed  well  the  expression  I  have  alluded  to.  None  of  the  artists  or  pictures  has 
caught  the  deep  though  subtle  and  indirect  expression  of  this  man's  face.  There 
is  something  else  there.  One  of  the  great  portrait  painters  of  two  or  three  centuries 
ago  is  needed." — Whitman,  Specimen  Days,  August  12,  1863.  "I  saw  him  on  his 
return,  at  three  o'clock,  after  the  performance  [the  inauguration]  was  over.  He  was 
in  his  plain  two-horse  barouche,  and  look'd  very  much  worn  and  tired;  the  lines, 
indeed,  of  vast  responsibilities,  intricate  questions,  and  demands  of  life  and  death, 
cut  deeper  than  ever  upon  his  dark  brown  face;  yet  all  the  old  goodness,  tenderness, 
sadness,  and  canny  shrewdness,  underneath  the  furrows.  (I  never  see  that  man  with 
out  feeling  that  he  is  one  to  become  personally  attach'd  to,  for  his  combination  of 
purest,  heartiest  tenderness  and  native  western  form  of  manliness.) — Ibid.,  March 
4,  1865.  "He  leaves  for  America's  historv  and  biography,  so  far,  not  only  its  most 


NOTES  625 


dramatic  reminiscence — he  leaves,  in  my  opinion,  the  greatest,  best,  most  char 
acteristic,  artistic,  moral  personality.  Not  but  that  he  had  faults,  and  show'd  them 
in  the  Presidency;  but  honesty,  goodness,  shrewdness,  conscience,  and  (a  new  virtue, 
unknown  to  other  lands,  and  hardly  yet  really  known  here,  but  the  foundation  and 
tie  of  all,  as  the  future  will  grandly  develop)  UNIONISM,  in  its  truest  and  amplest 
sense,  form'd  the  hard-pan  of  his  character.  These  he  seal'd  with  his  life.  The 
tragic  splendor  of  his  death,  purging,  illuminating  all,  throws  round  his  form,  his 
head,  an  aureole  that  will  remain  and  will  grow  brighter  through  time,  while  history 
lives  and  love  of  country  lasts.  By  many  has  this  Union  been  help'd;  but  if  one 
name,  one  man,  must  be  pick'd  out,  he,  most  of  all,  is  the  conservator  of  it,  to  the 
future."— /Wd.,  April  16,  1865. 

(473)  To  THE  MAN-OF-WAR  BIRD.  U  18.  Senegal:  a  French  colony  in  western 
Africa. 

CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

"I  am  not  blind  to  the  worth  of  the  wonderful  gift  of  'Leaves  of  Grass.'    I 

find  it  the  most  extraordinary  piece  of  wit  and  wisdom  that  America  has  yet  con 
tributed.  I  am  very  happy  in  reading  it,  as  great  power  makes  us  happy.  It  meets 
the  demand  I  am  always  making  of  what  seemed  the  sterile  and  stingy  Nature, 
as  if  too  much  handiwork  or  too  much  lymph  in  the  temperament  were  making  our 
Western  wits  fat  and  mean.  I  give  you  joy  of  your  free  and  brave  thought.  I  have 
great  joy  in  it.  I  find  incomparable  things  said  incomparably  well,  as  they  must  be. 
I  find  the  courage  of  treatment  that  so  delights  us,  and  which  large  perception  only 
can  inspire.  I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career."— Ralph  Waldo  Emer 
son,  in  a  letter  to  Whitman,  July  21,  1855. 

"A  fireman  or  omnibus  driver  who  had  intelligence  enough  to  absorb  the 
speculations  of  that  school  of  thought  which  culminated  at  Boston  some  fifteen  or 
eighteen  years  ago,  and  resources  of  expression  to  put  them  forth  again  in  a  form 
of  his  own,  with  sufficient  self-conceit  and  contempt  for  public  taste  to  affront  all 
usual  propriety  of  diction,  might  have  written  this  gross  yet  elevated,  this  super 
ficial  yet  profound,  this  preposterous  yet  somehow  fascinating  book.  As  we  say, 
it  is  a  mixture  of  Yankee  transcendentalism  and  New  York  rowdyism;  and,  what 
must  be  surprising  to  both  these  elements,  they  here  seem  to  fuse  and  combine  with 
the  most  perfect  harmony.  The  vast  and  vague  conceptions  of  the  one  lose  nothing 
of  their  quality  in  passing  through  the  coarse  and  odd  intellectual  medium  of  the 
other;  while  there  is  an  original  perception  of  nature,  a  manly  brawn,  and  an  epic 
directness  in  our  new  poet  which  belong  to  no  other  adept  of  the  transcendental 
school." — Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine,  September,  1855. 

"This  thin  quarto  deserves  its  name.  That  is  to  say,  one  reads  and  enjoys 
the  freshness,  simplicity,  and  reality  of  what  he  reads,  just  as  the  tired  man,  lying 
on  the  hillside  in  summer,  enjoys  the  leaves  of  grass  around  him,  enjoys  the  shadow, 
enjoys  the  flecks  of  sunshine,  not  for  what  they  'suggest  to  him,'  but  for  what  they 

are So  the  book  is  a  collection  of  observations,  speculations,  memories,  and 

prophecies,  clad  in  the  simplest,  truest,  and  often  the  most  nervous  English 

What  he  has  seen  once  he  has  seen  for  ever.  And  thus  there  are  in  this  curious  book 
little  thumb-na>i  sketches  of  life  in  the  prairie,  life  in  California,  life  at  school,  life 


626  AMERICAN  POEMS 


in  the  nursery, — life,  indeed,  we  know  not  where  not, — which,  as  they  are  unfolded 
one  after  another,  strike  us  as  real — so  real  that  we  wonder  how  they  came  on  paper. 
For  the  purpose  of  showing  that  he  is  above  every  conventionalism,  Mr.  Whitman 
puts  into  the  book  one  or  two  lines  which  he  would  not  address  to  a  woman  nor  to  a 
company  of  men.  There  is  not  anything,  perhaps,  which  modern  usage  would 
stamp  as  more  indelicate  than  are  some  passages  in  Homer.  There  is  not  a  word 

in  it  meant  to  attract  readers  by  its  grossness For  all  that,  it  is  a  pity  that  a 

book  where  everything  else  is  natural  should  go  out  of  the  way  to  avoid  the  sus 
picion  of  being  prudish." — Edward  Everett  Hale,  in  The  North  American  Review, 
January,  1856. 

"It  has  been  a  melancholy  task  to  read  this  book  [Drum-Taps],  and  it  is  a  still 
more  melancholy  one  to  write  about  it.  Perhaps  since  the  day  of  Mr.  Tupper's 
'  Philosophy '  there  has  been  no  more  difficult  reading  of  the  poetic  sort.  It  exhibits 
the  effort  of  an  essentially  prosaic  mind  to  lift  itself,  by  a  prolonged  muscular  strain, 

into  poetry Mr.  Whitman's  primary  purpose  is  to  celebrate  the  greatness  of 

our  armies;  his  secondary  purpose  is  to  celebrate  the  greatness  of  the  city  of  New 
York.  He  pursues  these  objects  through  a  hundred  pages  of  matter  which  remind 
us  irresistibly  of  the  story  of  the  college  professor  who,  on  a  venturesome  youth's 
bringing  him  a  theme  done  in  blank  verse,  reminded  him  that  it  was  not  customary 
in  writing  prose  to  begin  each  line  with  a  capital.  The  frequent  capitals  are  the 

only  marks  of  verse  in  Mr.  Whitman's  writing But  if  Mr.  Whitman  does  not 

write  verse,  he  does  not  write  ordinary  prose.  The  reader  has  seen  that  liberty  is 
'Libertad.'  In  like  manner  comrade  is  'camerado,'  Americans  are  'Americanos,' 
a  pavement  is  a  'trottoir,'  and  Mr.  Whitman  himself  is  a  'chansonnier.'  If  there  is 

one  thing  that  Mr.  Whitman  is  not,  it  is  this,  for  Beranger  was  a  chansonnier 

He  tells  us,  in  the  lines  quoted,  that  the  words  of  his  book  are  nothing.  To  our 

perception  they  are  everything,  and  very  little  at  that There  exists  in  even 

the  commonest  minds,  in  literary  matters,  a  certain  precise  instinct  of  conservatism, 
which  is  very  shrewd  in  detecting  wanton  eccentricities.  To  this  instinct  Mr. 
Whitman's  attitude  seems  monstrous.  It  is  monstrous  because  it  pretends  to 
persuade  the  soul  while  it  slights  the  intellect;  because  it  pretends  to  gratify  the 
feelings  while  it  outrages  the  taste.  The  point  is  that  it  does  this  on  theory, 

wilfully,  consciously,  arrogantly To  sing  aright  our  battles  and  our  glories 

it  is  not  enough  to  have  served  in  a  hospital  (however  praiseworthy  the  task  in  itself). 
to  be  aggressively  careless,  inelegant,  and  ignorant,  and  to  be  constantly  preoccupied 
with  yourself.  It  is  not  enough  to  be  rude,  lugubrious,  and  grim.  You  must  also 
be  serious.  You  must  forget  yourself  in  your  ideas."— Henry  James,  in  The  Nation, 
November  16,  1865. 

"The  greatest  of  this  poet's  distinctions  is  his  absolute  and  entire  originality. 
He  may  be  termed  formless  by  those  who  ....  are  wedded  to  the  established 
forms  and  ratified  refinements  of  poetic  art;  but  it  seems  reasonable  to  enlarge  the 
canon  till  it  includes  so  great  and  startling  a  genius  rather  than  to  draw  it  close  and 
exclude  him.  His  work  is  practically  certain  to  stand  as  archetypal  for  many 
future  poetic  efforts,  so  great  is  his  power  as  an  originator,  so  fervid  his  initiative. 
It  forms  incomparably  the  largest  performance  of  our  period  in  poetry."— W.  M. 
Rossetti,  in  Prefatory  Notice  to  an  English  edition  of  Whitman's  selected  poems, 
1868. 


NOTES  627 


"What  cannot  be  questional  after  an  hour's  acquaintance  with  Walt  Whitman 
and  his  Leaves  of  Grass  is  that  in  him  we  meet  a  man  not  shaped  out  of  old-world 
clay,  not  cast  in  any  old-world  mould,  and  hard  to  name  by  any  old-world  name.  In 
his  self-assertion  there  is  a  manner  of  powerful  nonchalantness  which  is  not  assumed. 
....  We  will  not  say  that  his  poems,  as  regards  their  form,  do  not,  after  all,  come 
right,  or  that  for  the  matter  which  he  handles  his  manner  of  treatment  may  not  be 
the  best  possible.  One  feels,  as  it  has  been  well  said,  that  although  no  counting  of 
syllables  will  reveal  the  mechanism  of  the  music,  the  music  is  there  and  that  'one 
would  not  for  something  change  ears  with  those  who  cannot  hear  it.'  ....  He 
delights  in  men,  and  neither  approaches  deferentially  those  who  are  above  him  nor 
condescendingly  gazes  upon  those  who  are  beneath.  He  is  the  comrade  of  every 
man,  high  and  low.  His  admiration  of  a  strong,  healthy,  and  beautiful  body,  or  a 
strong,  healthy,  and  beautiful  soul,  is  great  when  he  sees  it  in  a  statesman  or  a  savant; 

it  is  precisely  as  great  when  he  sees  it  in  the  ploughman  or  the  smith But 

it  is  not  those  alone  who  are  beautiful  and  healthy  and  good  who  claim  the  poet's 
love.  To  all  'the  others  are  down  on'  Whitman's  hand  is  outstretched  to  help,  and 
through  him  come  to  us  the  voices — petitions  or  demands — of  the  diseased  and 
despairing,  of  slaves,  of  prostitutes,  of  thieves,  of  deformed  persons,  of  drunkards. 
....  Men  of  every  class,  then,  are  interesting  to  Whitman.  But  no  individual 
is  pre-eminently  interesting  to  him.  His  sketches  of  individual  men  and  women, 
though  wonderfully  vivid  and  precise,  are  none  of  them  longer  than  a  page;  each 
single  figure  passes  rapidly  out  of  sight,  and  a  stream  of  other  figures  of  men  and 

women  succeeds Whitman  will  not  have  the  people  appear  in  his  poems  by 

representatives  or  delegates;  the  people  itself,  in  its  undiminished  totality,  marches 

through  his  poems,  making  its  greatness  and  variety  felt When  his  desire  for 

the  perception  of  greatness  and  variety  is  satisfied,  not  when  a  really  complete 
catalogue  is  made  out,  Whitman's  enumeration  ends;  we  may  murmur,  but  Whit 
man  has  been  happy;  what  has  failed  to  interest  our  imaginations  has  deeply 
interested  his;  and  even  for  us  the  impression  of  multitude,  of  variety,  of  equality  ^ 

is  produced  as  perhaps  it  could  be  in  no  other  way One  admission  must  be 

made  to  Whitman's  disadvantage.  If  there  be  any  class  of  subjects  which  it  is 
more  truly  natural,  more  truly  human  not  to  speak  of  than  to  speak  of  .  .  .  .  ,  if 
there  be  any  sphere  of  silence,  then  Whitman  has  been  guilty  of  invading  that 
sphere  of  silence.  But  he  has  done  this  by  conviction  that  it  is  best  to  do  so,  and 

in  a  spirit  as  remote  from  base  curiosity  as  from  insolent  licence No  Hebrew 

ever  maintained  the  rights  of  the  spiritual  more  absolutely.  But  towards  certain 
parts  of  our  nature,  although  in  the  poet's  creed  their  rights  are  dogmatically  laid 

down,  he  is  practically  unjust The  logical  faculty,  in  particular,  is  almost 

an  offence  to  Whitman There  is  something  like  intolerance  or  want  of 

comprehensiveness  here;  one's  heart,  touched  by  the  injustice,  rises  to  take  the 
part  of  this  patient,  serviceable,  despised  understanding." — Edward  Dowden,  in 
The  Westminster  Review,  July,  1871. 

"  If  I  ever  saw  anything  in  print  that  deserved  to  be  characterized  as  atrociously 

bad,  it  is  the  poetry  of  Walt  Whitman The  Leaves  of  Grass  under  which 

designation  Whitman  includes  all  his  poems,  are  unlike  anything  else  that  has 
passed  among  men  as  poetry.  They  are  neither  in  rhyme  nor  in  any  measure  known 


628  AMERICAN  POEMS 


as  blank  verse;  and  they  are  emitted  n  spurts  or  gushes  of  unequal  length,  which 
can  only  by  courtesy  be  called  lines.  Neither  in  form  nor  in  substance  are  they 

poetry;  they  are  inflated,  wordy,  foolish  prose The  secret  of  Whitman's 

surprising  newness — the  principle  of  his  conjuring  trick — is  on  the  surface.  It  can 
be  indicated  by  the  single  word,  extravagance.  In  all  cases  he  virtually  or  consciously 
put  the  question,  '  What  is  the  most  extravagant  thing  which  it  is  here  in  my  power 
to  say  ?  What  is  there  so  paradoxical,  so  hyperbolical,  so  nonsensical,  so  indecent, 
so  insane,  that  no  man  ever  said  it  before,  that  no  other  man  would  say  it  now,  and 
that  therefore  it  may  be  reckoned  on  to  create  a  sensation  ?'....  If  here  and 
there  we  have  tints  of  healthful  beauty,  and  tones  of  right  and  manly  feeling,  they 
but  suffice  to  prove  that  he  can  write  sanely  and  sufferably  when  he  pleases,  that 
his  monstrosities  and  solecisms  are  sheer  affectation,  that  he  is  not  mad  but  only 

counterfeits  madness Incapable  of  true  poetical  originality,  Whitman  had 

the  cleverness  to  invent  a  literary  trick,  and  the  shrewdness  to  stick  to  it.  As  a 
Yankee  phenomenon,  to  be  good-humouredly  laughed  at,  and  to  receive  that  moder 
ate  pecuniary  remuneration  which  nature  allows  to  vivacious  quacks,  he  would 
have  been  in  his  place;  but  when  influential  critics  introduce  him  to  the  English 
public  as  a  great  post,  the  thing  becomes  too  serious  for  a  joke." — Peter  Bayne.  in 
The  Contemporary  Review,  December,  1875. 

"I  shall  not  waste  words  in  the  endeavour  to  prove  that  Walt  Whitman  is  a 
poet,  and  one  of  high  order.  In  the  first  magazines  and  by  the  first  literary  persons 
in  this  country  he  has  been  saluted  as  such.  I  desire  to  call  attention  to  the  nature 
of  his  distinguishing  merits;  and  first  and  beyond  all  others  I  would  set  this,  that 
he  always  represents  life  as  a  boon  beyond  price  and  is  ever  ready  to  invoke  a 

blessing  on  his  natal  day At  his  touch  the  dry  bones  of  our  meagre  humanity 

are  transformed,  and  man  starts  forth  like  a  god,  in  body  and  in  soul  superhuman. 
The  blurring,  concealing  mist  peels  away,  and  we  see  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 

earth.  It  is  no  longer  a  mean  thing  to  be  a  man The  sympathy  of  Whitman 

is  boundless — not  man  alone  or  animals  alone,  but  brute  inanimate  nature  is 
absorbed  and  assimilated  in  his  extraordinary  personality.  Often  we  think  one 
of  the  elements  of  nature  has  found  a  voice  and  thunders  great  syllables  in  our  ears. 

He  speaks  like  something  more  than  man — something  tremendous Under 

a  mask  of  extravagance,  of  insane  intensity,  Whitman  preserves  a  balance  of  mind 
and  a  sanity  such  as  no  poet  since  Shakespeare  has  evinced.  If  his  sympathies 
were  fewer  he  would  go  mad.  Energy  and  passion  so  great,  streaming  through  few 
and  narrow  channels,  would  burst  all  barriers.  His  universal  sympathies  have 
been  his  salvation,  and  have  rendered  his  work  in  the  highest  degree  sane  and  true. 
He  is  always  emphatic,  nay  violent;  but  then  he  touches  all  things.  Life  is  intense 
in  him,  and  the  fire  of  existence  burns  brighter  and  stronger  than  in  other  men. 
Thus  he  does  his  reader  service:  he  seems  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  veins  to  pour 

life  into  those  who  read  him.  He  is  electric  and  vitalizing He  is  the  noblest 

literary  product  of  modern  times,  and  his  influence  is  invigorating  and  refining 
beyond  expression." — Arthur  Clive,  in  The  Gentleman's  Magazine,  December,  1875. 

"I  have  myself  repeatedly  pointed  out  ....  the  qualities  which  give  a  cer 
tain  touch  of  greatness  to  his  work,  the  sources  of  inspiration  which  infuse  into  its 
chaotic  jargon  some  passing  or  seeming  notes  of  cosmic  beauty  and  diversify  with 


NOTES  629 


something  of  occasional  harmony  the  strident  and  barren  discord  of  its  jarring  and 
erring  atoms.  His  sympathies,  I  repeat,  are  usually  generous,  his  views  of  life  are 
occasionally  just,  and  his  views  of  death  are  invariably  noble.  In  other  words,  he 
generally  means  well,  having  a  good  stock  on  hand  of  honest  emotion;  he  sometimes 
sees  well,  having  a  natural  sensibility  to  such  aspects  of  nature  as  appeal  to  an  eye 
rather  quick  than  penetrating;  he  seldom  writes  well,  being  cabined,  cribbed, 
confined,  bound  in,  to  the  limits  of  a  thoroughly  unnatural,  imitative,  histrionic, 
and  affected  style.  But  there  is  a  thrilling  and  fiery  force  in  his  finest  bursts  of 
gusty  rhetoric  which  makes  us  wonder  whether  with  a  little  more  sense  and  a  good 
deal  more  cultivation  he  might  not  have  made  a  noticeable  orator."— Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne,  in  Studies  in  Prose  and  Poetry,  1887. 

"In  spite  of  an  uneven  and  emphatic  key  of  expression,  something  trenchant 
and  straightforward,  something  simple  and  surprising  distinguishes  his  poems.  He 
has  sayings  that  come  home  to  one  like  the  Bible.  We  fall  upon  Whitman,  after 
the  works  of  so  many  men  who  write  better,  with  a  sense  of  relief  from  strain, 
with  a  sense  of  touching  nature,  as  when  one  passes  out  of  the  flaring,  noisy  thor 
oughfares  of  a  great  city  into  what  he  himself  has  called,  with  unexcelled  imagina 
tive  justice  of  language, 'the  huge  and  thoughtful  night.'  ....  I  do  not  know  many 
better  things  in  literature  than  the  brief  pictures— brief  and  vivid  like  things  seen 
by  lightning — with  which  he  tries  to  stir  up  the  world's  heart  upon  the  side  of 

mercy For  all  the  afflicted,  all  the  weak,  all  the  wicked,  a  good  word  is  said 

in  a  spirit  which  I  can  only  call  one  of  ultra-Christianity He  has  chosen  a 

rough,  unrhymed,  lyrical  verse,  sometimes  instinct  with  a  fine  processional  move 
ment,  often  so  rugged  and  careless  that  it  can  only  be  described  by  saying  that  he 

has  not  taken  the  trouble  to  write  prose Too  often,  I  fear,  he  is  the  only  one 

who  can  perceive  the  rhythm;  and  in  spite  of  Mr.  Swinburne,  a  great  part  of  his 
work,  considered  as  verse,  is  poor  bald  stuff.  Considered  not  as  verse  but  as  speech, 
a  great  part  of  it  is  full  of  strange  and  admirable  u.erits.  The  right  detail  is  seized; 
the  right  word,  bold  and  trenchant,  is  thrust  into  its  place.  Whitman  has  small 
regard  to  literary  decencies,  and  is  totally  free  from  literary  timidities.  He  is 
neither  afraid  of  being  slangy  nor  of  being  dull;  nor,  let  me  add,  of  being  ridiculous. 
The  result  is  a  most  surprising  compound  of  plain  grandeur,  sentimental  affectation, 
and  downright  nonsense."— Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  in  Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and 
Books,  1882. 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

(475)  LEO^ATUS.    The  text  is  from  the  1852  edition.     Cf.  Cymbeline,  I.  i.  40- 

54» 

The  king  he  takes  the  babe 

To  his  protection,  calls  him  Posthumous  Leonatus, 
Breeds  him  and  makes  him  of  his  bed-chamber, 
Puts  him  to  all  the  learnings  that  his  time 
Could  make  him  the  receiver  of;  which  he  took, 
As  we  do  air,  fast  as  't  was  ministered, 
And  in  's  spring  became  a  harvest,  lived  in  court — 
Which  rare  it  is  to  do — most  praised,  most  loved, 
A  sample  to  the  youngest,  to  the  more  mature 
A  glass  that  feated  them,  and  to  the  graver 


630  AMERICAN  POEMS 


A  child  that  guided  dotards;  to  his  mistress, 
For  whom  he  now  is  banished,  her  own  price 
Proclaims  how  she  esteemed  him  and  his  virtue; 
"By  her  election  may  be  truly  read 
What  kind  of  man  he  is. 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS 

(478)  ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE.     The  text  is  from  the  1854  edition.     Tf  2.  Arno: 
the  river  flowing  through  Florence,   Dante's  birthplace.     If  4.  Tuscan^ Italian; 
from  Tuscany,  the  district  of  Italy  in  which  Florence  is  situated. 

(479)  n.  Beatrice:   Dante's  love,  who  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-four;   in  his 
Dimna  Commedia  he  represents  her  as  his  guide  in  Paradise  and  finally  as  resuming 
her  seat  in  the  third  circle  of  the  blessed: 

"Looking  aloft 

To  the  third  circle  from  the  highest,  there 
Behold  her  on  the  throne,  wherein  her  merit 
Hath  placed  her."     Answering  not,  mine  eyes  I  raised, 
And  saw  her  where  aloof  she  sat,  her  brow 
A  wreath  reflecting  of  eternal  beams. 
— Dimna  Commedia,  "Paradiso,"  xxxi.  67-72,  Gary's  translation. 

Tf  13.  Ghibeline:  the  two  great  parties  in  Italy  in  Dante's  time  were  the  Guelfs,  who 
favored  the  Pope,  and  the  Ghibelines,  who  favored  the  Emperor.  If  17.  Cuma's 
cavern:  a  cave  at  Cumae,  near  Naples,  supposed  to  have  been  inhabited  by  the 
Cumaean  sibyl. 

(480)  45.  Rome's  harlot:  the  corruptions  in  the  Church;  see  the  description  of 
bad  popes  in  "Inferno,"  xix. 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER 

(480)  45.  NOTHING  TO  WEAR.  Lines  1-56,  213-33,  301-21.  The  text  is  from 
the  1857  edition.  First  published  in  Harper's  Weekly,  February  7,  1857. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

The  text  is  from  the  1865  edition. 

(485)  BEFORE  THE  RAIN.     First  published,  as  "We  Knew  It  Would  Rain," 
in  Putnam's  Monthly,  April,  1857. 

(486)  PAMPINEA.     First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1861. 

(487)  23.  Tuscan:    Florence  is  in  Tuscany. 

(488)  67.  Appledore:  one  of  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  off  the  coast  of  New  Hampshire; 
it  was  for  years  the  poet's  summer  home. 

HENRY  TIMROD 

The  text  is  from  the  IQOI  edition. 

(488)  THE  LILY  CONFIDANTE.  First  published  in  Russell's  Magazine,  January, 
1858. 

(490)  CHARLESTON.  The  poem  was  evidently  written  late  in  1861  or  early  in 
1862.  when  Fort  Sumter  and  Fort  Moultrie  were  both  in  the  hands  of  the  Confeder- 


NOTES  631 


ates,  and  the  Union  warships  were  blockading  the  coast.     If  9.  Calpe:   the  Rock  of 
Gibraltar,  guarding  the  entrance  to  the  Mediterranean. 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

(494)  THE  MOCKING-BIRDS.  Reprinted,  by  the  courtesy  of  Professor  W.  P. 
Trent  and  the  Macmillan  Company,  from  Southern  Writers.  The  poem  was  first 
published,  says  Professor  Trent,  in  The  Manhattan  Magazine. 

(496)  A  LITTLE  WHILE  I  FAIN  WOULD  LINGER  YET.  The  text  is  from  the 
1882  edition. 

POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

The  texts  are  chiefly  from  Songs  of  the  Soldiers  (1864),  Rebel  Rhymes  (1864), 
and  War  Lyrics  (1866). 

(499)  MARYLAND!     MY  MARYLAND.     The  text  is  from  the  1910  edition  of 
Randall's  poems.     First  published  in  the  New  Orleans  Delta,  April  26,  1861.     The 
poem  was  occasioned  hy  a  conflict  in  Baltimore  between  Union  troops  and  a  mob, 
on  April  19,  1861,  when  forces  were  hurrying  to  the  defense  of  Washington;  several 
persons  were  killed  on  each  side.     The  lines  are  an  appeal  to  Maryland  to  join 
the  seceding  states. 

(500)  21.  Carroll:    Charles  Carroll   was  a  delegate   from  Maryland   to  the 
Continental  Congress,  and  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 
U  22.  Howard's:  John  E.  Howard  was  a  Revolutionay  officer,  and  did  gallant  serv 
ice  in  the  battle  of  Cowpens,  in   1781,  when  the  British  were  overwhelmingly 
defeated.     If  29.  Ringgold's:   Major  Samuel  Ringgold,  who  was  mortally  wounded 
in  the  first  battle  of  the  Mexican  War,  in  1846.     U  30.  Watson's:   Colonel  William 
H.  Watson  was  killed  in  the  battle  of  Monterey,  in  1846.     ^31.  Lowe  .... 
May:  leaders  in  the  protest  of  Maryland,  in  1861,  against  the  efforts  of  the  federal 
government  to  suppress  Southern  sentiment  in  Maryland;    Lowe  was  governor. 
H  39.  In  1861,  "And  add  a  new  Key  to  thy  song";  an  allusion  to  F.  S.  Key,  author 
of  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  who  was  born  in  Maryland.     1f  46.  "Sic  semper": 
part  of  the  motto  of  Virginia,  "Sic  semper  tyrannis,"  "Thus  ever  to  tyrants." 

(501)  BALTIMORE.     The  poem  was  occasioned  by  the  same  incident  as  the 
preceding;   the  Baltimore  riot  stirred  Massachusetts  the  more  because  one  of  th» 
two   regiments  attacked   was  the  Sixth   Massachusetts.      1f  8.  the   Theban  shaft: 
a  colossal  statue  of  Memnon  (not  a  shaft),  at  Thebes  in  Egypt,  was  fabled  to  utter 
a  sound  when  touched  by  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun. 

(502)  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES.     If  4.  'single  star':    the  flags  first  displayed 
by  some  of  the  seceding  states  had  only  one  star. 

(503)  13.  Keystone  State:  Pennsylvania.     1f  18.  Saratoga's  tree-crown'd  heights, 
....  Monmouth's  bloody   plain:    scenes  of  famous  battles  in  the   Revolution. 
1f3i.  Minnehaha's  sparkling  falls:    in  Minnesota.     Kansas'  land  of  blood:    from 
1854  to  1858  there  was  a  fierce  and  often  bloody  struggle  in  Kansas  to  decide  whether 
it  should  be  slave  territory  or  free;   see  "How  Old  Brown  Took  Harper's  Ferry," 
p.  516.     1f  38.  Western  Twins:   California  and  Oregon. 

(504)  49.  Camden's  bloody  field  and  Eutaw's  iron  scars:    allusions  to  battles 
in  the  Revolutionary  War,  in  which  North  and  South  fought  together  for  their 


632  AMERICAN  POEMS 

common  country.  H  51.  tkee:  Kentucky;  the  name,  which  is  an  Indian  word,  is 
said  to  mean  "dark  and  bloody  ground,"  the  district  having  been  a  favorite  hunting- 
ground  for  red  men.  H  52.  a  way  of  peace:  Kentucky  tried  for  a  time  to  main 
tain  an  attitude  of  neutrality  between  North  and  South.  1f  57.  West  Virginia: 
in  1 86 1  a  popular  convention  of  the  counties  now  constituting  West  Virginia  passed 
an  ordinance  providing  for  the  formation  of  a  new  state;  a  constitution  was  adopted 
in  1862,  and  the  state  was  admitted  to  the  Union  in  1863;  the  causes  for  the  separa 
tion  were  economic  and  social  as  well  as  political,  fl  67.  oriflamme  =  battle-flag; 
the  word  comes,  through  the  French,  from  Latin  aurum,  "gold,"  and  flamma, 
"flame,"  and  was  used  originally  of  the  French  ensign,  a  red  flag  borne  on  a  gilded 
lance.  ^  61.  bars:  the  first  national  Confederate  flag  had  three  broad  bands  (two 
red  and  one  white),  called  bars,  instead  of  the  thirteen  stripes  of  the  Union  flag. 

(506)  AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  BULL  RUN.     Bull  Run  is  a  small  river  about 
twenty-five  miles  southwest  of  Washington;   here  was  fought  the  first  great  battle 
of  the  Civil  War,  on  July  21,  1861,  in  which  the  Union  army  was  badly  routed. 

(507)  BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC.    The  text  is  from  the  1866  edition 
of  Mrs.  Howe's  poems.     First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  February,  1862. 
t  1-4.  Cf.  Rev.  19:11,  14,  15:    "And  I  saw  heaven  opened,  and  behold  a  white 
horse;  and  he  that  sat  upon  him  was  called  Faithful  and  True,  and  in  righteousness 

he  doth  judge  and  make  war And  the  armies  which  were  in  heaven  followed 

him  upon  white  horses,  clothed  in  fine  linen,  white  and  clean.     And  out  of  his  mouth 
goeth  a  sharp  sword,  that  with  it  he  should  smite  the  nations:   and  he  shall  rule 
them  with  a  rod  of  iron:  and  he  treadeth  the  wine-press  of  the  fierceness  and  wrath 
of  Almighty  God."     If  n.  Cf.  Gen.  3:15. 

(508)  STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY.      U  22.  In  forma  pauperis  =  "a.s  a  poor 
man"  (literally,  "in  the  form  of  a  pauper"). 

(509)  THE  SONG  OF  THE  REBEL.     Stanzas  27-31.     K  8.  "Without  reproach  or 
fear":  a  translation  of  the  phrase  "sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,"  used  of  the  Cheva 
lier  de  Bayard. 

(510)  29.  "Light  Horse  Harry":  Henry  Lee,  a  gallant  officer  in  the  Revolution, 
the  father  of  Robert  E.  Lee. 

(510)  AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  WAR.  "On  one  occasion,  during  the  war  in  Vir 
ginia,  General  Lee  was  lying  asleep  by  the  wayside,  when  an  army  of  15,000  men 
passed  by  with  hushed  voices  and  footsteps  lest  they  should  disturb  bis  slumbers. — 
Prefatory  note,  in  War  Lyrics. 

(512)  SHERIDAN'S  RIDE.  The  text  is  from  the  1865  edition  of  Read's  poems. 
The  poem  is  founded  on  an  incident  in  the  battle  of  Cedar  Creek,  in  the  Shenandoah 
Valley,  Virginia,  October  19,  1864:  Sheridan's  army  was  surprised  and  routed 
in  the  early  morning,  while  he  was  returning  from  a  visit  to  Washington;  at  Win 
chester,  twenty  miles  away,  he  heard  the  sounds  of  battle,  galloped  to  the  scene, 
rallied  his  troops,  shouting,  "Face  the  other  way,  boys!  We  are  going  back!' 
and  won  a  victory. 

(514)  THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG.  First  published  in  The  Century  Maga- 
zine,  July,  1888,  from  which  the  text  is  taken.  "The  poem  ....  was  composed," 
writes  the  author  to  the  present  editor,  "a  year  before  that  time,  while  I  was  makinp 


NOTES  633 


a  geological  survey  of  some  of  the  northern  counties  of  Indiana."  Mr.  Thompson 
is  a  Southerner,  and  fought  throughout  the  Civil  War  on  the  Confederate  side; 
since  1868  he  has  lived  in  the  North. 

(515)  1 8.  Kamsin  wind:   a  hot  southeast  wind  that  blows  in  Egypt  for  fifty 
days  every  year,  beginning  in  March. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

(516)  How  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERXY.    The  text  is  from  the  1860 
edition.     First  published  in  The  New  York  Tribune,  November  12,  1859.    John 
Brown,  born  in  Connecticut  in  1800,  settled  in  Kansas  in  1855  and  became  promi 
nent  in  the  fight  to  keep  slavery  out  of  that  territory;  he  got  his  surname  of  "Osa- 
watomie"  by  defeating  a  party  of  slaveholders  at  Osawatomie  in  1856;  he  removed 
to  Virginia,  and,  in  pursuit  of  a  purpose  to  liberate  the  slaves  by  arming  them  and 
rousing  them  to  revolt,  he  and  a  few  companions  seized  the  arsenal  at  Harper's  Ferry 
on  October  16,  1859,  and  took  captive  some  of  the  chief  citizens;  but  the  slaves  did 
not  rise,  and  Brown  was  captured  on  October  18,  severely  wounded;  on  October  27 
he  was  tried  and  found  guilty  of  treason  and  murder,  and  was  hanged  on  December  2. 

(518)  46.  turned  parson:   Brown  had  studied  for  the  ministry  in  his  youth. 

(519)  79.  the   Emperor's  coup  dy  ttat:    in  1851   Louis  Napoleon,  nephew  of 
Napoleon  I,  overthrew  the  French  Republic,  of  which  he  was  president,  and  became 
emperor  of  France. 

(520)  PAN  IN  WALL  STREET.    First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  January, 
1867,  from  which  the  text  is  taken. 

(522)  45.  Trinacrian  =  Sicilian;   "Trinacria"  was  an  old  name  for  Sicily,  from 
its  "three  promontories."     If  54.  &gon:  a  neatherd  boxer,  mentioned  in  the  fourth 
idyl  of  Theocritus.     H  76.  Arethusan:  Arethusa  was  a  famous  spring  in  Sicily. 

(523)  86.  "Great  Pan  is  dead":     there  was  an  old  tradition  that,  at  about  the 
time  of  the  Crucifixion,  certain  voyagers  from  Italy  to  Cyprus  heard  a  voice  at  sea 
crying  that  the  great  god  Pan  was  dead. 

ALICE  GARY 

(523)  SOMETIMES.    The  text  is  from  the  1866  edition. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 

The  text  is  from  the  1882  edition. 

(525)  THE  SHIP  IN  THE  DESERT.    Section  13,  11.  121-39. 

SIDNEY  LANIER 

The  text  is  from  the  1884  edition. 

(525)  NIGHT  AND  DAY.     First  published  in  The  Independent,  July,  1884     Cf 
Othello,  V.  ii. 

(526)  SONG  FOR  "THE  JACQUERIE."     "The  Jacquerie"  is  an  uncompleted 
poem  on  the  bloody  revolt  of  the  French  peasants    (called  "Jacquerie,"  from 
"Jacques,"  the  common  name  for  a  peasant)  against  the  nobles,  in  1358. 


634  AMERICAN  POEMS 

(527)  THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN.  First  published  in  The  Masque  of  Poets. 
Glynn  is  a  county  on  the  coast  of  Georgia,  the  poet's  native  state. 

(530)  How  LOVE  LOOKED  FOR  HELL.  First  published  in  The  Century  Magazine, 
March,  1884. 

(532)  85.  Read=* interpret. 

EMILY  DICKINSON 
The  text  is  from  the  1891  and  1892  editions.  , 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

GENERAL  WORKS 

HISTORY 

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by  Woodrow  Wilson,  5  vols.  (Harper,  1902).  History  of  the  United  States  of 
America  (1783-1865),  by  James  Schouler,  6  vols.  (Dodd,  1880-99).  A  History  of 
the  People  of  the  United  States  (1783-1861),  by  J.  B.  McMaster,  8  vols.  (Appleton 
1883-1910;  7  vols.  out).  History  of  the  United  States  (986-1905),  by  T.  W 
Higginson  and  William  MacDonald  (Harper,  1905).  A  Students'  History  of  thu 
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3  vols.  (Holt,  1882-89).  The  Discovery  of  America,  by  John  Fiske,  2  vols.  (Hough- 
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1897).  The  Beginnings  of  New  England,  by  John  Fiske  (Houghton,  1899).  The 
Dutch  and  Quaker  Colonies  in  America,  by  John  Fiske,  2  vols.  (Houghton,  1900). 
The  American  Revolution,  by  John  Fiske,  2  vols.  (Houghton,  1891).  The  Critical 
Period  of  American  History  (1783-89),  by  John  Fiske  (Houghton,  1888).  A  His 
tory  of  the  United  States,  by  Edward  Channing,  2  vols.  out  (1000  1760),  (Mac 
millan,  1905,  1908).  A  Half  Century  of  Conflict  (1700—1748),  by  Francis  Parkman, 
2  vols.  (Little,  1892).  Montcalm  and  Wolfe,  by  Francis  Parkman  (Little,  1884). 
History  of  the  United  States  (1850-77),  by  J.  F.  Rhodes,  7  vols.  (Harper,  1892- 
1906).  The  History  of  the  Last  Quarter  Century  in  the  United  States,  by  E.  B. 
Andrews,  2  vols.  (Scribner,  1896). 

SOCIAL  CONDITIONS 

Colonial  and  Revolutionary  Times. — The  American  People,  a  Study  in  National 
Psychology,  by  A.  M.  Low,  2  vols.  (Houghton,  1909,  1911).  Men,  Women,  and 
Manners  in  Colonial  Times,  by  S.  G.  Fisher,  2  vols.  (Lippincott,  1897).  Women 
of  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  Times  (Scribner,  1897).  Costumes  of  Colonial 
Times,  by  Alice  M.  Earle  (Scribner,  1894).  Colonial  Dames  and  Good  Wives,  by 
Alice  M.  Earle  (Houghton,  1895).  English  Culture  in  Virginia,  in  Johns  Hopkins 
University  Studies  in  Historical  and  Political  Science,  Seventh  Series  (Baltimore, 
1899).  New  England  Two  Centuries  Ago,  by  J.  R.  Lowell,  in  Literary  Essays, 
Vol.  2  (Houghton,  1890;  this  essay,  1865).  Customs  and  Fashions  in  Old  New- 
England,  by  Alice  M.  Earle  (Scribner,  1894).  The  Sabbath  in  Puritan  New  Eng 
land,  by  Alice  M.  Earle  (Scribner,  1891).  Samuel  Sewall  and  the  World  He  Lived 
in,  by  N.  H.  Chamberlain  (DeWolfe,  1897).  The  Witchcraft  Delusion  in  Colonial 
Connecticut  (1647-97).  by  J.  M.  Taylor  (Grafton  Press,  New  York,  1908).  Witch 
craft,  by  J.  R.  Lowell,  in  Literary  Essays,  Vol.  2  (Houghton,  1890;  this  essay,  1868). 
Were  the  Salem  Witches  Guiltless,  and  Some  Neglected  Characteristics  of  the  New 

637 


638  AMERICAN  POEMS 


England  Puritans,  by  Barrett  Wendell,  in  Stelligeri  (Scribner,  1893).  Colonial 
Days  in  Old  New  York,  by  Alice  M.  Earle  (Scribner,  1896).  Papers  on  Historic 
New  York,  in  the  Half  Moon  Series  (Putnam,  1897-98).— To  Have  and  to  Hold 
(a  novel  of  the  settlement  of  Virginia),  by  Mary  A.  Johnston  (Houghton,  1900). 
My  Lady  Pokahontas,  by  J.  E.  Cooke  (Houghton,  1885).  White  Aprons,  a  Ro 
mance  of  Bacon's  Rebellion,  by  Maud  W.  Goodwin  (Little,  1896).  Merry-Mount, 
a  Romance  of  the  Massachusetts  Colony,  by  J.  L.  Motley  (Boston,  1848).  Mary 
Dyer,  the  Quaker  Martyr,  by  Horatio  Rogers  (Preston  and  Rounds,  Providence, 
1896).  The  Black  Shilling  (a  novel  of  the  Salem  witchcraft),  by  Amelia  E.  Barr 
(Dodd,  1903).  Richard  Carvel  (a  novel  of  the  Revolution),  by  Winston  Churchill 
(Macmillan,  1899).  Hugh  Wynne,  Free  Quaker  (a  novel  of  the  Revolution),  by 
S.  W.  Mitchell  (Century  Co.,  1897). 

Nineteenth  Century. — The  American  People,  a  Study  in  National  Psychology, 
by  A.  M.  Low,  Vol.  2  (Houghton,  1911).  A  Century  of  Social  Betterment,  by  J. 
B.  McMaster,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1897.  Cambridge  Thirty  Years 
Ago,  by  J.  R.  Lowell,  in  Literary  Essays,  Vol.  i  (Houghton,  1890;  this  essay,  1854). 
Old  Cambridge,  by  T.  W.  Higginson  (Macmillan,  1899).  A  History  of  the  Uni 
tarians  in  the  United  States,  by  J.  H.  Allen,  in  American  Church  History  Series, 
Vol.  10  (Christian  Literature  Co.,  New  York,  1894).  Unitarianism  in  America, 
by  G.  W.  Cooke  (American  Unitarian  Association,  1902).  Transcendentalism  in 
New  England,  by  O.  B.  Frothingham  (Putnam,  1876).  The  Transcendentalist, 
by  R.  W.  Emerson,  in  Works,  Centenary  Edition,  Vol.  i  (Houghton,  1903;  this 
lecture  read  in  1842).  Historic  Notes  of  Life  and  Letters  in  New  England,  by 
R.  W.  Emerson,  in  Works,  Centenary  Edition,  Vol.  10  (Houghton,  1904;  this  essay 
written  about  1867,  first  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  October,  1883).  New 
England  Reformers,  by  R.  W.  Emerson,  in  Essays,  Second  Series  (Houghton; 
this  lecture  read  in  1844).  The  Sunny  Side  of  Transcendentalism,  by  T.  W. 
Higginson,  in  Part  of  a  Man's  Life  (Houghton,  1905;  this  essay,  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  January,  1904).  Reminiscences  of  Brook  Farm,  by  G.  P.  Bradford,  in 
the  Century  Magazine,  November,  1892.  Brook  Farm,  by  Lindsay  Swift  (Mac 
millan,  1900).  The  Old  South,  Essays  Social  and  Political,  by  T.  N.  Page 
(Scribner,  1892).  The  Peculiarities  of  the  South,  by  N.  S.  Shaler,  in  the  North 
American  Review,  October,  1890. 

HISTORY   OF   LITERATURE 

General.— American  Literature,  1607-1885,  by  C.  F.  Richardson,  2  vols 
(Putnam,  1887,  1889;  popular  edition,  2  vols.  in  i).  A  Literary  History  of  America 
(1600-1900),  by  Barrett  Wendell  (Scribner,  1900).  American  Literature,  an  His 
torical  Sketch,  1620-1880,  by  John  Nichol,  professor  in  the  University  of  Glasgow 
(Black,  1882).  Geschichte  der  nordamerikanischen  Litteratur,  von  Karl  Knortz, 
2  vols.  (Berlin,  1891).  Geschichte  der  nordamerikanischen  Litteratur,  von  Eduard 
Engel  (Leipzig,  1897).  A  History  of  American  Literature,  1607-1865,  by  W.  P. 
Trent  (Appleton,  1903).  America  in  Literature,  by  G.  E.  Woodberry  (Harper. 
1903).  A  Short  History  of  American  Literature  (1607-1900),  by  W.  C.  Bronson 
(Heath,  1900). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  639 


Special  Periods  and  Sections. — A  History  of  American  Literature,  1607-1765, 
by  M.  C.  Tyler,  2  vols.  (Putnam,  1878;  student's  edition,  2  vols.  in  i).  The  Liter 
ary  History  of  the  American  Revolution,  1763-83,  by  M.  C.  Tyler,  2  vols.  (Put 
nam,  1897;  student's  edition,  2  vols.  in  i).  Studies  of  Great  Authors,  from  the 
Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature,  4  vols.  (Doubleday,  1899).  Literary  Leaders 
of  America,  by  Richard  Burton  (Scribner,  1903).  Poets  of  America,  by  E.  C.  Sted- 
rnan  (Houghton,  1885).  The  Poetry  and  Poets  of  America,  by  J.  C.  Collins,  in 
Studies  in  Poetry  and  Criticism  (Bell,  1905).  American  Writers,  in  Blackwood's 
Magazine,  September,  1824.  American  Poetry,  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  June, 
1822.  American  Poets,  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  October,  1886.  A  Half-Century 
of  American  Literature  (1857-1907),  by  T.  W.  Higginson,  in  Carlyle's  Laugh  and 
Other  Surprises  (Houghton,  1909;  this  essay,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  November, 
1007).  American  Writers  of  To-Day,  by  H.  C.  Vedder  (Silver,  1894).  Present-Day 
American  Poetry,  by  H.  H.  Peckham,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  July,  1912. 
Three  American  Poets  of  To-Day  (W.  V.  Moody,  E.  A.  Robinson,  Ridgely  Tor- 
rence),  by  May  Sinclair,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  September,  1906.  The  New 
England  Poets,  by  W.  C.  Lawton  (Macmillan,  1898).  A  History  of  Southern  Lit 
erature,  by  Carl  Holliday  (Neale  Publishing  Co.,  1906).  Representative  Southern 
Poets,  by  C.  W.  Hubner  (Neale  Publishing  Co.,  1906).  The  Poetry  of  the  South, 
by  H.  W.  Mabie,  in  the  International  Monthly,  January-June,  1902.  Southern 
Poets  9f  To-Day,  by  Carl  Holliday,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  January,  1910. 
The  Hoosiers,  by  Meredith  Nicholson  (Macmillan,  1900).  The  Literary  Develop 
ment  of  the  Pacific  Coast,  by  Herbert  Bashford,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  July,  1903 

Special  Topics. — Americanism  in  Literature,  by  T.  W.  Higginson,  in  Atlantic 
Essays  (Osgood,  1874;  this  essay,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1870).  Amer 
ican  Humour,  by  Andrew  Lang,  in  Lost  Leaders  (Paul,  1892).  Yankee  Humour, 
in  the  Quarterly  Review,  January,  1867.  Cosmopolitan  Tendencies  in  American 
Literature,  by  W.  C.  Lawton,  in  the  Sewanee  Review,  April,  1906.  Dialect  in  Lit 
erature,  by  J.  W.  Riley,  in  the  Forum,  December,  1892).  The  Influence  of  Democ 
racy  on  Literature,  and  Has  America  Produced  a  Poet,  by  Edmund  Gosse,  in  Ques 
tions  at  Issue  (Heinemann,  1893;  Appleton).  Nature  in  Early  American  Literature, 
by  S.  L.  Whitcomb,  in  the  Sewanee  Review,  Vol.  2,  1893-94.  The  Development  of 
the  Love  of  Romantic  Scenery  in  America,  by  Mary  E.  Woolley,  in  the  American 
Historical  Review,  October,  1897.  The  National  Element  in  Southern  Literature, 
by  J.  B.  Henneman,  in  the  Sewanee  Review,  July,  1903.  The  Reconstruction  of 
Southern  Literary  Thought,  by  H.  N.  Snyder,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly, 
April,  1902.  Some  Phases  of  the  Supernatural  in  American  Literature,  by  A.  H. 
Quinn,  in  Publications  of  the  Modern  Language  Association,  March,  1910 
(Baltimore). 

Biography. — A  Critical  Dictionary  of  English  Literature  and  British  and 
American  Authors,  by  S.  A.  Allibone,  4  vols.  (Lippincott,  1858-71);  Supplement, 
by  J.  F.  Kirk,  2  vols.  (Lippincott,  1891).  Appleton's  Cyclopaedia  of  American 
Biography,  ed.  by  J.  G.  Wilson  and  John  Fiske,  6  vols.  (Appleton,  1886-89).  A 
Dictionary  of  American  Authors,  by  O.  F.  Adams  (Houghton,  1897). — American 
Bookmen,  by  Mary  A.  DeWolfe  Howe  (Dodd,  1898).  American  Lands  and  Letters. 


640  AMERICAN  POEMS 


by  D.  G.  Mitchell,  2  vols.  (Scribner,  1897,  1899).  Authors  and  Friends,  by  Mrs. 
J.  T.  Fields  (Houghton,  1896).  Authors  at  Home,  ed.  by  J.  L.  and  J.  B.  Gilder 
(Cassell,  1888;  reprinted  from  the  Critic).  Biographical  Notes  and  Personal 
Sketches,  by  J.  T.  Fields  (Houghton,  1881).  Bryant  and  His  Friends,  by  J.  G. 
Wilson  (Ford,  1886).  Chapters  from  a  Life,  by  Elizabeth  S.  Phelps  (Houghton, 
1896).  Cheerful  Yesterdays,  by  T.  W.  Higginson  (Houghton,  1898).  Homes  of 
American  Authors,  by  G.  W.  Curtis  and  Others  (Putnam,  1852).  Homes  and 
Haunts  of  Our  Elder  Poets,  by  R.  H.  Stoddard,  F.  B.  Sanborn,  and  H.  N.  Powers 
(Appleton,  1881).  Little  Journeys  to  the  Homes  of  American  Authors,  by  Curtis, 
Hillard,  Bryant,  and  others  (Putnam,  1896).  Personal  Recollections  of  Notable 
People,  by  C.  K.  Tuckerman,  a  vols.  (Dodd,  1895).  Recollections  of  a  Literary 
Life,  by  Mary  R.  Mitford,  3  vols.  (London,  1852).  Reminiscences,  by  Julia  W. 
Howe  (Houghton,  1899). 

Bibliography. — American  Authors  (1795-1895),  a  Bibliography  of  First  and 
Notable  Editions  Chronologically  Arranged,  with  Notes,  by  P.  K.  Foley  (Publish 
ers'  Printing  Co.,  1897).  Bibliotheca  Americana,  a  Dictionary  of  Books  Relating  to 
America,  by  Joseph  Sabin,  19  vols.  (A  to  Simms)  (Sabin,  1868-91).  A  Catalogue 
of  the  Harris  Collection  of  American  Poetry,  by  J.  C.  Stockbridge  (Providence, 
1886).  A  Catalogue  of  Books  Relating  to  North  and  South  America  in  the  Library 
of  John  Carter  Brown  of  Providence,  R.I.,  with  Notes,  by  J.  R.  Bartlett,  6  vols 
(Providence,  1865-82).  Chronological  Outlines  of  American  Literature,  by  S.  L 
Whitcomb  (Macmillan,  1894). 

COLLECTIONS   OF    POEMS 

A  Library  of  American  Literature  (1607-1890),  ed.  by  E.  C.  Stedman  and 
Ellen  M.  Hutchinson,  n  vols.  (Webster,  1887-90;  Benjamin).  Cyclopaedia  oi 
American  Literature  (1607-1855),  by  E.  A.  and  G.  L.  Duyckinck,  2  vols.  (Scribner 
1855;  enlarged  edition,  1875).  Specimens  of  American  Poetry  (1660-1829),  ed.  by 
Samuel  Kettell,  3  vols.  (Boston,  1829).  An  American  Anthology,  ed.  by  E.  C. 
Stedman  (Houghton,  1900).  Southern  Writers  (1607-1904),  ed.  by  W.  P.  Trent 
(Macmillan,  1905).  The  Golden  Treasury  of  American  Songs  and  Lyrics,  ed.  by 

F.  L.  Knowles  (Page,   1898).     Representative  Sonnets,  ed.  by  C.  H.  Crandall 
(Houghton,  1890).     Poems  of  American  History,  ed.  by  B.  E.  Stevenson  (Hough- 
ton,  1908).     Poems  of  American  Patriotism,  ed.  by  Brander  Matthews  (Scribner, 
1882).     American  War  Ballads  and  Lyrics  (colonial  wars  to  Civil  War),  ed.  by 

G.  C.  Eggleston,  2  vols.  (Putnam,  1889;    Knickerbocker  Nuggets  Series).     Songs 
and  Ballads  of  the  American  Revolution,  ed.  by  Frank  Moore  (Appleton,  1856). 
The  Loyalist  Poetry  of  the  Revolution,  ed.  by  Winthrop  Sargent  (Philadelphia, 
1857).    The  Poets  of  Transcendentalism,  ed.  by  G.  W.  Cooke  (Houghton,  1903). 
Poetry,  Lyrical,  Narrative,  and  Satirical,  of  the  Civil  War,  ed.  by  R.  G.  White 
(American  News  Co.,  1866).    Bugle-Echoes,  a  Collection  of  the  Poetry  of  the  Civil 
War,  Northern  and  Southern,  ed.  by  F.  F.  Brown  (White,    1886;   new  edition). 
Songs  and  Ballads  of  the  Southern  People,  1861-65,  ed.  by  Frank  Moore  (Appleton, 
1886).     War  Lyrics  and  Songs  of  the  South  (Spottiswoode,  London,  1866).     Songs 
of  the  Soldiers,  Lyrics  of  Loyalty,  Rebel  Rhymes  and  Rhapsodies,  ed.  by  Frank 
Vtoore,  3  vola.  (Putnam,  1864).     Younger  American  Poets  (1830-00),  ed.  by  D 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  641 


Sladen,  with  an  Appendix  of  Younger  Canadian  Poets,  ed.  by  G.  B.  Roberts  (Casscll, 
1891).  A  Treasury  of  Canadian  Verse,  ed.  by  T.  H.  Rand  (Button,  1900;  Dent). 
War-Time  Echoes,  Patriotic  Poems  of  the  Spanish-American  War  (Werner  Co., 
1898).  The  Humbler  Poets,  a  Collection  of  Newspaper  and  Periodical  Verse,  1870 
to  1885,  ed.  by  Slason  Thompson  (McClurg,  1886);  Second  Series,  1885-1910,  ed. 
by  Wallace  and  Frances  Rice  (McClurg,  1911).  Cowboy  Songs  and  Other  Frontier 
Ballads,  collected  by  J.  A.  Lomax  (Sturgis,  1910). 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

EDITIONS.  Writings,  Ponkapog  Edition,  9  vols.  (Houghton,  1907).  Poems, 
a  vols.,  Riverside  Edition  (Houghton,  1896);  Revised  and  Complete  Household 
Edition  (Houghton,  1907). 

BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM.  Atlantic  Monthly:  August,  1866;  January, 
1898  (Our  Two  Most  Honored  Poets).  Edgar  Fawcett:  Atlantic  Monthly,  Decem 
ber,  1874.  Ferris  Greenslet:  The  Life  of  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  (Houghton,  1908; 
bibliography).  P.  E.  More:  Shelburne  Essays,  Seventh  Series  (Putnam,  1910). 
Albert  Phelps:  Atlantic  Monthly,  August,  1907.  Bliss  Perry:  Park-Street  Papers 
(Houghton,  1908;  the  essay  on  Aldrich,  which  is  mostly  biographical,  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  May,  1907). 

JOEL  BARLOW 

EDITIONS.  The  Vision  of  Columbus  (Hartford,  1787).  The  Hasty-Pudding 
(New  York  and  New  Haven,  1796).  The  Columbiad  (Philadelphia,  1807). 

BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM.  C.  B.  Todd:  Life  and  Letters  (Putnam,  1886) 
M.  C.  Tyler:  Three  Men  of  Letters  (Putnam,  1895). 

HUGH  H.  BRACKENRIDGE 

EDITIONS.  The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill,  a  Dramatic  Piece,  of  Five  Acts 
(Philadelphia,  1776).  The  Death  of  General  Montgomery  (Philadelphia,  1777). 

ANNE  BRADSTREET 

EDITIONS.  The  Tenth  Muse  Lately  Sprung  up  in  America  (London,  1650). 
Several  Poems,  Corrected  by  the  Author  and  Enlarged  (Boston,  1678;  reprinted, 
1758).  Works  in  Prose  and  Verse,  ed.  by  J.  H.  Ellis,  with  biographical  introduc 
tion  (Cutter,  Charlestown,  1867). 

BIOGRAPHY.  Helen  Campbell:  Anne  Bradstreet  and  Her  Time  (Lothrop, 
1891. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

EDITIONS.  Poetical  Works,  ed.  by  Parke  Godwin,  2  vols.  (Appleton,  1883). 
Prose  Writings,  ed.  by  Pt./ke  Godwin,  2  vols.  (Appleton,  1884).  The  Poetical 
Works,  Roslyn  Edition  (Appleton,  1903;  extensive  bibliography).  The  Iliad  of 
Homer,  The  Odyssey  of  Homer,  Translated  into  English  Blank  Verse,  2  vols. 
(Houghton,  1870-71). 

BIOGRAPHY.  JohnBigelow:  life  in  American  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Houghton, 
1800).  W.  A.  Bradley:  life  in  English  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Maonillan,  1905) 


642  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Parke  Godwin:  A  Biography  of  William  Cullen  Bryant,  2  vols.  (Appleton,  1883; 
Vols.  i  and  2  of  Life  and  Works,  the  poems  and  prose  (see  above)  forming  Vols.  3, 
4,  and  5,  6).  R.  H.  Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary  (Barnes,  1903). 
M.  C.  Tyler:  Selections  from  His  Letters  and  Diaries,  ed.  by  Jessica  Tyler  Austin, 
pp.  80-83  (Bryant  in  1873)  (Doubleday,  1911).  J.  G.  Wilson:  Bryant  and  His 
Friends  (Fords,  1886). 

CRITICISM.  Centennial  Celebration,  Cummington,  Mass.,  August,  1894: 
addresses  by  John  Bigelow,  Parke  Godwin,  C.  E.  Norton,  C.  D.  Warner,  and  others 
(Cummington,  1894).  G.  W.  Curtis:  Orations  and  Addresses,  Vol.  3  (Harper, 
1894;  this  address  given  in  1878).  Edinburgh  Review,  April,  1835  (Selections  from 
the  American  Poets).  Parke  Godwin:  Commemorative  Addresses  (Harper,  1895) 
Independent,  January,  1895.  Littell's  Living  Age,  December  10,  1853  (from  tht 
New  Monthly  Magazine).  E.  S.  Nadal:  Essays  at  Home  and  Elsewhere  (Mac- 
millan,  1882).  North  American  Review,  April,  1832.  G.  H.  Palmer:  Atlas  Essays 
(Barnes,  1877).  E.  A.  Poe:  Works,  Virginia  Edition,  Vols.  8,  9,  10,  13  (Crowell, 
1902;  articles  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  January,  1835,  January,  1837, 
in  Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,  May,  1840,  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  April, 
1846).  Bayard  Taylor:  Critical  Essays  and  Literary  Notes  (Putnam,  1880). 
John  Wilson:  Black  wood's  Magazine,  April,  1832. 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER 

EDITIONS.  Nothing  to  Wear  (New  York,  1857).  Nothing  to  Wear  and  Other 
Poems  (Harper,  1899). 

ALICE  GARY 
EDITION.    Poetical  Works  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary  (Houghton,  1876,  1884). 

EBENEZER  COOK 

EDITIONS.  The  Sot- Weed  Factor,  or  a  Voyage  to  Maryland  (London,  1708); 
reprinted  in  Shea's  Early  Southern  Tracts,  No.  a. 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE 
EDITION.     Froissart  Ballads  and  Other  Poems  (Philadelphia,  1847). 

EMILY  DICKINSON 

EDITIONS.  Poems,  3  series  (Roberts  Bros.,  1891, 1892, 1896;  Little).  Letters, 
ed.  by  Mabel  L.  Todd,  2  vols.  (Roberts  Bros.,  1894;  Little). 

CRITICISM.  T.  W.  Higginson:  Carlyle's  Laugh  and  Other  Surprises  (Hough- 
ton,  1909). 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE 

EDITIONS.  The  Culprit  Fay  and  Other  Poems  (New  York,  1836).  The  Cul 
prit  Fay  (Putnam,  1899;  Ariel  Booklets  Series). 

CRITICISM.  E.  A.  Poe:  Works,  Virginia  Edition,  Vol.  8  (Crowell,  1907- 
this  article  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger.  April.  1836^ 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  643 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 

EDITIONS.  The  Conquest  of  Canaan  (Hartford,  1785).  Greenfield  Hill 
(New  York,  1794). 

BIOGRAPHY.     M.  C.  Tyler:  Three  Men  of  Letters  (Putnam,  1895). 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

EDITIONS.  Complete  Works,  Centenary  Edition,  ed.  by  E.  W.  Emerson,  12 
vols.  (Houghton,  1903-4).  Works,  Little  Classics  Edition,  12  vols.  (Houghton, 
1883-94).  Poems,  New  Household  Edition  (Houghton,  1899).  Journals,  ed.  by 

E.  W.  Emerson  and  W.  E.  Forbes,  6  vols.  out  (1820-44)  (Houghton,  1909-11). 
Correspondence  of  Carlyle  and  Emerson,  2  vols.  (Osgood,  1883;  enlarged  edition, 
Ticknor,  1888;    Houghton).     Correspondence  of  John  Sterling  and  Emerson,  ed. 
by  E.  W.  Emerson  (Houghton,  1897;    first  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  July,  1897). 
Letters  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  to  a  Friend,  ed.  by  C.  E.  Norton  (Houghton, 
1899).     Correspondence  between  Emerson  and  Hermann  Grimm,  ed.  by  F.  W. 
Holls  (Houghton,  1903;  first  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1903).     Records  of  a 
Lifelong  Friendship  (letters  between  Emerson  and  W.  H.  Furness)   (Houghton, 
1910).     Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  with  Two  Early  Essays  of  Emerson's,  by  E.  E. 
Hale  (Lamson,  1896;    American  Unitarian  Association,  1903). 

BIOGRAPHY.  J.  E.  Cabot:  A  Memoir,  2  vols.  (Houghton,  1887).  E.  W. 
Emerson:  Emerson  in  Concord  (Houghton,  1889).  Richard  Garnett:  life  in  Great 
Writers  Series  (Scott,  1888;  bibliography  by  J.  P.  Anderson,  British  Museum). 
O.  W.  Holmes:  life  in  American  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Houghton,  1885).  F.  B. 
Sanborn:  life  in  Beacon  Biographies  Series  (Small,  1901).  G.  E.  Woodberry:  life 
in  English  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Macmillan,  1907). — John  Albee:  Remembrances 
of  Emerson  (Cooke,  New  York,  1901).  Louisa  M.  Alcott:  Reminiscences  of  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson,  in  Parton's  Some  Noted  Princes,  Authors,  and  Statesmen  of  Our 
Times  (Crowell,  1885).  Charles  and  Mary  Cowden  Clarke:  Recollections  of 
Writers  (London,  1878).  T.  H.  Clark:  An  Emerson  Reminiscence,  in  the  South 
Atlantic  Quarterly,  July,  1905.  M.  D.  Conway:  Emerson  at  Home  and  Abroad 
(Osgood,  1882;  Houghton);  Emerson,  the  Teacher  and  the  Man,  in  the  Critic, 
May,  1903.  G.  W.  Curtis:  Emerson  Lecturing,  in  From  the  Easy  Chair  (Harper, 
1902).  D.  G.  Haskins:  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  His  Maternal  Ancestors,  with  Some 
Reminiscences  of  Emerson  (Cupples,  1887).  T.  W.  Higginson:  Contemporaries 
(Houghton,  1899).  Alexander  Ireland:  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  Personal  Recol 
lections  of  His  Visits  to  England  (Simpkin,  1882).  J.  R.  Lowell:  Emerson  the 
Lecturer,  in  Literary  Essays,  Vol.  i  (Houghton  1890;  this  essay,  1861).  H.  C. 
Robinson:  Diary,  April  22,  May  2,  June  9,  June  27,  1848  (Kurd,  1877;  Houghton). 

F.  B.  Sanborn:   The  Personality  of  Emerson  (Goodspeed,  Boston,  1903);   Recol 
lections  of  Seventy  Years,  2  vols.  (Badger,  1909)-     F.  P.  Stearns:   Sketches  from 
Concord  and  Appledore  (Putnam,  1895).     J.  B.  Thayer:  A  Western  Journey  with 
Emerson  (Little,   1884).     Walt  Whitman:    Complete  Prose  Works,  pp.  181-84, 
189-90  (Small,  1898).     N.  P.  Willis:    Littell's  Living  Age,  March  9,  1850  (from 
Morris  and  Willis'  Home  Journal)   (Emerson's  voice  and  manner  of  speaking). 
C.  J.  Woodbury:  Talks  with  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (Paul,  1890;  Baker). 


644  AMERICAN  POEMS 


CRITICISM.  A.  B.  Alcott:  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  an  Estimate  of  His  Char 
acter  and  Genius  (Williams,  1882).  Matthew  Arnold:  Discourses  in  America 
(Macmillan,  1885).  Brother  Azarias:  Phases  of  Thought  and  Criticism  (Hough- 
ton,  1892).  H.  A.  Beers:  Emerson's  Transcendentalism,  in  Points  at  Issue  (Mac 
millan,  1904).  Joel  Ben  ton:  Emerson  as  a  Poet  (Holbrook,  1883).  Augustine 
Birrell:  Obiter  Dicta,  Second  Series  (Scribner,  1887).  John  Burroughs:  Birds  and 
Poets  (1877),  Emerson  and  the  Superlative  (1882),  Matthew  Arnold's  View  of 
Emerson  (1884),  Literary  Values  and  Other  Papers  (1902),  in  Works  (Houghton, 
1004).  J.  J.  Chapman:  Emerson  and  Other  Essays  (Scribner,  1898).  Concord 
School  of  Philosophy:  The  Genius  and  Character  of  Emerson  (various  lectures  at 
the  School,  1884)  (Osgood,  1885;  Houghton).  G.  W.  Cooke:  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  His  Life,  Writings,  and  Philosophy  (Osgood,  1881;  Houghton).  G.  W. 
Curtis:  Literary  and  Social  Essays  (Harper,  1895).  W.  F.  Dana:  Optimism  of 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (Cupples,  1886).  Dugard:  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  sa  vie 
et  son  ceuvre  (Paris,  1907).  C.  W.  Eliot:  Emerson  as  Seer,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
June,  1903;  Four  American  Leaders  (American  Unitarian  Association,  Boston, 
1906).  C.  C.  Everett:  The  Poems  of  Emerson,  in  Essays  Theological  and  Literary 
(Houghton,  1901).  Karl  Federn:  Essays  zur  amerikanischen  Litteratur  (Halle, 
1899).  Kuno  Francke:  Emerson  and  German  Personality,  in  German  Ideals  of 
To-Day  (Houghton,  1907;  this  essay,  in  the  International  Quarterly,  September- 
December,  1903).  J.  A.  Froude:  Short  Studies  on  Great  Subjects,  Vol.  i  (London, 
1867;  Scribner).  P.  H.  Frye:  Emerson  and  the  Modern  Reports,  in  Literary 
Reviews  and  Criticisms  (Putnam,  1908).  Richard  Garnett:  Essays  of  an  Ex- 
Librarian  (Dodd,  1901).  G.  A.  Gordon:  Emerson  as  a  Religious  Influence,  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1903.  Hermann  Grimm:  Neue  Essays  uber  Kunst  und 
Litteratur  (Berlin,  1865;  this  essay,  1861);  Fiinfzehn  Essays,  Dritte  Folge  (Berlin, 
1882);  Essays  on  Literature,  Translated  by  Sarah  Adams  (Cupples,  1886).  E.  E. 
Hale:  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  with  Two  Early  Essays  of  Emerson's  (Lamson,  1896; 
American  Unitarian  Association,  Boston,  1903).  R.  H.  Hutton:  Criticisms  on 
Contemporary  Thought  and  Thinkers  (Macmillan,  1894).  A.  A.  Jack:  Poetry 
and  Prose  (Dutton,  1912).  Henry  James,  Sr.:  Literary  Remains  (Osgood,  1885); 
Emerson,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  December,  1904  (a  lecture  written  about  1868) 
Henry  James,  Jr. :  Partial  Reports  (Macmillan,  1888).  William  James:  Memories 
and  Studies  (Longmans,  1911;  the  address  on  Emerson  was  published  in  the  Pro 
ceedings  of  the  Emerson  Centenary  in  Concord,  May  25,  1903).  H.  W.  Mab?e: 
Backgrounds  of  Literature  (Macmillan,  1903).  Maurice  Maeterlinck:  Le  tre"sor 
des  humbles,  English  translation  (Dodd,  1897).  D.  L.  Maulsby:  Emerson,  His 
Contribution  to  Literature  (Tufts  College  Press,  191 1).  E.  D.  Mead;  The  Influ 
ence  of  Emerson  (American  Unitarian  Association,  Boston,  1903).  Emile  Mont6- 
gut:  Un  penseur  et  poete  ame'ricain,  in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  August  i, 
1847.  P.  E.  More:  The  Influence  of  Emerson,  in  Shelburne  Essays,  First  Series 
(Putnam.  1904).  John  Morley:  Critical  Miscellanies,  Vol.  i  (Macmillan,  1893;  this 
essay,  1884).  C.  E.  Norton:  Nation,  May  30,  1867.  H.  T.  Peck:  Studies  in 
Several  Literatures  (Dodd,  1 909) .  F.  B .  Sanborn :  Emerson  and  Contemporary  Poets, 
in  the  Critic,  May,  1903.  George  Santayana:  Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion 
(Scribner,  1000).  H.  E.  Scudder:  Men  and  Letters  (Houghton,  1887).  F.  P. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  645 


Stearns:    Emerson  as  a  Poet,  in  The  Real  and  Ideal  in  Literature  (Putnam,  i8g2). 
Leslie  Stephen:    Studies  of  a  Biographer,  Vol.  4   (Duckworth,   1902;    Putnam). 

F.  H.  Underwood:  North  American  Review,  May,  1880.     E.  P.  Whipple:  Emerson 
as  a  Poet,  in  American  Literature  and  Other  Essays  (Ticknor,  1887;    Houghton). 
Walt  Whitman:  Complete  Prose  Works,  pp.  173,  314-17  (Small,  1898). 

BIBLIOGRAPHY.     A   Bibliography  of   Ralph   Waldo   Emerson,   compiled   by 

G.  W.  Cooke  (Houghton,  1908). 

PHILIP  FRENEAU 

EDITIONS.  Poems,  2  vols.  (Philadelphia,  1809;  revised  edition  of  poems 
written  between  1768  and  1793).  A  Collection  of  Poems  on  American  Affairs  and 
a  Variety  of  Other  Subjects,  2  vols.  (New  York,  1815).  Poems  Relating  to  the 
American  Revolution,  ed.  by  E.  A.  Duyckinck  (New  York,  1865).  Poems,  ed.  by 
F.  L.  Pattee,  3  vols.  (Princeton  University  Library,  1902-7).  The  American  Village, 
reprinted  in  facsimile  from  the  original  edition,  with  an  Introduction  by  H.  L. 
Koopman  (Club  for  Colonial  Reprints,  Providence,  1906). 

BIOGRAPHY.  Mary  S.  Austin:  Philip  Freneau,  a  History  of  His  Life  and 
Times  (A.  Wessels  Co.,  New  York,  1901). 

CRITICISM.  Ferris  Greenslet:  Atlantic  Monthly,  December,  1904.  P.  E 
More:  Shelburne  Essays,  Fifth  Series  (Putnam,  1908;  this  essay,  in  the  Nation, 
October  10,  1907). 

THOMAS  GODFREY 

EDITIONS.  The  Court  of  Fancy  (Philadelphia,  1762).  Juvenile  Poems  on 
Various  Subjects;  with  the  Prince  of  Parthia,  a  Tragedy  (Philadelphia,  1765). 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

EDITIONS.  Poems  (Lothrop,  1882).  Some  Fugitive  Poems  of  Paul  Hamilton 
Ilayne  (six  poems),  reprinted  by  J.  E.  Routh,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly, 
October,  1910. 

CRITICISM.  J.  T.  Brown,  Jr.:  Sewanee  Review,  April,  1906.  Carl  Holliday: 
Sewanee  Review,  April,  1906.  H.  W.  Mabie:  The  Poetry  of  the  South,  in  the 
International  Monthly,  January-June,  1902. 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK 

EDITIONS.  Fanny  (New  York,  1819).  Alnwick  Castle,  with  Other  Poems 
(New  York,  1827).  Poetical  Writings,  ed.  by  J.  G.  Wilson  (Appleton,  1869). 

BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM.  W.  C.  Bryant:  Commemorative  Discourse,  in 
Prose  Writings,  Vol.  i  (Appleton,  1884;  this  address,  1869).  E.  A.  Poe:  Works, 
Virginia  Edition,  Vols.  8,  n,  15  (Crowell,  1902:  articles  in  the  Southern  Literary 
Messenger,  April,  1836,  in  Graham's  Magazine,  September,  1843,  in  Godey's 
Lady's  Book,  July,  1846).  R.  H.  Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary, 
XII  (Barnes,  1903).  T.  G.  Wilson:  Life  and  Letters  of  Halleck  (Appleton,  1869). 


646  AMERICAN  POEMS 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

EDITIONS.  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  14  vols.  (Houghton,  1891);  Standard 
Library  Edition,  16  vols.  (including  life  and  letters,  2  vols.)  (Houghton,  1892-96)- 
Poetical  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  3  vols.  (Houghton,  1891);  Cambridge  Edition 
(Houghton,  1895);  New  Household  Edition  (Houghton,  1907).  Letters  to  a 
Classmate,  in  the  Century  Magazine,  October,  1907. 

BIOGRAPHY.  J.  T.  Morse:  Life  and  Letters  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  a  vols. 
(Houghton,  1896).— T.  W.  Higginson:  Old  Cambridge  (Macmillan,  1899).  W.  D. 
Howells:  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintance  (Harper,  1900).  Mary  R.  Mitford, 
Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life  (London,  1852).  G.  W.  Smalley:  Studies  of  Men 
(Harper,  1895).  J-  T.  Trowbridge:  My  Own  Story  (Houghton,  1903). 

CRITICISM.  Critic,  August  30,  1884  (Holmes  aumber).  S.  M.  Crothers: 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  the  Autocrat  and  His  Fellow  Boarders,  with  Selected 
Poems  (Houghton,  1909;  the  essay,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  August,  1909).  G. 
W.  Curtis:  Literary  and  Social  Essays  (Harper,  1895).  Edinburgh  Review,  April, 
1910.  H.  R.  Haweis:  American  Humourists  (Chatto,  1883).  Andrew  Lang: 
Adventures  among  Books  (Longmans,  1905).  Littell's  Living  Age,  October  8, 
I8S3  (from  the  New  Monthly  Magazine).  H.  C.  Lodge:  Certain  Accepted 
Heroes,  and  Other  Essays  in  Literature  and  Politics  (Harper,  1897;  this  essay,  in 
the  North  American  Review,  December,  1894).  Quarterly  Review,  January, 
1867;  January,  1895.  F.  P.  Stearns:  Cambridge  Sketches  fLippincott,  1005). 
Leslie  Stephen:  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  Vol.  2  (Duckworth,  1898;  Putnam). 
Bayard  Taylor:  Critical  Essays  and  Literary  Notes  (Putnam,  1880).  J.  G.  Whit- 
tier:  Mirth  and  Medicine,  in  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  Vol.  7  (Houghton,  1888; 
this  essay,  in  book  form,  1854). 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE 

EDITIONS.  Passion  Flowers  (Ticknor,  1854).  Later  Lyrics  (Lee,  1866). 
From  Sunset  Ridge,  Poems  Old  and  New  (Houghton,  1899).  At  Sunset  (Hough- 
ton,  1910). 

DAVID  HUMPHREYS 

EDITIONS.  A  Poem  Addressed  to  the  Armies  of  the  United  States  of  America 
(New  Haven,  1780).  A  Poem  on  the  Happiness  of  America  (London,  1786). 
Poems  (Philadelphia,  1789;  second  edition).  Miscellaneous  Works  (New  York, 
1790). 

EDWARD  JOHNSON 

EDITIONS.  A  History  of  New-England  (usually  called  by  its  running  title, 
Wonder- Working  Providence  of  Sions  Saviour  in  New-England)  (London,  1654; 
reprinted  in  Massachusetts  Historical  Society's  Collections,  Series  2,  Vols.  2-8); 
reprint,  ed.  by  J.  F.  Jameson  (Scribner,  1910). 

HENRY  C.  KNIGHT 

EDITIONS.  The  Broken  Harp  (Philadelphia,  1815).  Poems,  2  vols.  (Boston, 
1821). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  647 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

EDITIONS.  Poems,  ed.  by  His  Wife,  with  a  Memorial  by  W.  H.  Ward  (Scrib 
ner,  1884).  Select  Poems,  ed.  by  Morgan  Callaway,  Jr.  (Scribner,  1895).  Poems 
'Lippincott,  1877).  Tiger  Lilies,  a  Novel  (Kurd,  1867).  The  Science  of  English 
Verse  (Scribner,  1880).  Retrospects  and  Prospects,  Descriptive  and  Historical 
Essays  (Scribner,  1809).  Music  and  Poetry,  Essays  upon  Some  Aspects  and  Inter- 
Relations  of  the  Two  Arts  (Scribner,  1808).  The  English  Novel  and  the  Principles 
of  Its  Development  (Scribner,  1883).  Shakspere  and  His  Forerunners,  ed.  by 
H.  W.  Lanier,  2  vols.  (Doubleday,  1902).  Letters  (Scribner,  1809;  a  few  letters 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  July,  August,  1894). 

BIOGRAPHY.  Edwin  Mims:  life  in  the  American  Men  of  Letters  Series 
(Houghton,  1005).— W.  M.  Baskervfll:  life  in  Southern  Writers  Series  (Barbee, 
Nashville,  1897).  G.  H.  Clarke:  Some  Reminiscences  and  Early  Letters  of  Sidney 
Lanier  (Burke,  Macon,  1907).  D.  C.  Oilman:  Sidney  Lanier,  Reminiscences 
and  Letters,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  April,  1905.  M.  H.  Northrup: 
Sidney  Lanier,  Recollections  and  Letters,  in  Uppincott's  Magazine,  March,  tgof. 

CRITICISM.  Therese  Bentzon:  Un  musicien  poete,  Sidney  Lanier,  in  the 
Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  January  15,  1898;  translated  in  LittelTs  Living  Age, 
May  14,  21,  1808.  W.  P.  Few:  Sidney  Lanier  as  a  Student  of  English  Literature, 
in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  April,  1903.  Edmund  Gosse:  Questions  at  Iscue 
(Heinemann,  1893;  Appleton).  T.  W.  Higginson:  Contemporaries  (Houghton, 
1899).  C.  W.  Hubner:  Representative  Southern  Poets  (Neale  Publishing  Co., 
1906).  C.  W.  Kent:  A  Study  of  Lanier' s  Poems,  in  the  Publications  of  the  Modern 
Language  Association,  Vol.  7,  PP-  33~O3  (Baltimore,  1892).  H.  W.  Mabie:  The 
Poetry  of  the  South,  in  the  International  Monthly,  January-June,  1902.  H.  N. 
Snyder:  Sidney  Lanier  (Methodist  Book  Concern,  1906).  W.  R.  Thayer:  Inde 
pendent,  June  12,  December  18,  1884-  W.  P.  Woolf :  Sidney  Lanier  as  Revealed 
in  His  Letters,  in  the  Sewanee  Review,  July,  1900;  The  Poetry  of  1i1«iJ  Lanier, 
in  the  Sewanee  Review,  July,  1902. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY.  G.  S.  Wills:  Sidney  Lanier,  His  Life  and  Writings,  in  Pub 
lications  of  the  Southern  History  Association,  July,  1899  (Washington,  D.C.). 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

EDITIONS.  Works  (including  translation  of  Dante),  Riverside  Edition,  11 
vols.  (Houghton,  1886);  Standard  Library  Edition,  14  vols.  (including  the  life  by 
Samuel  Longfellow,  3  vols.)  (ITiij^HB,  1886-91).  Complete  Poetical  Works, 
Riverside  Edition,  6  vols.  (Houghton  1886);  Cambridge  Edition,  ed-  by  H.  E 
Scudder  (Houghton,  1803);  New  Household  Edition,  illustrated  (Houghton,  1902); 
Library  Edition,  illustrated  (Houghton,  1003).  Translation  of  the  Divina  Corn- 
media  (Houghton,  1867). 

BIOGRAPHY.  G.  R.  Carpenter:  life  in  Beacon  Biographies  Series  (Small,  1901). 
T.  W.  flfrjJMHB  life  in  American  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Houghton,  1902).  Samud 
Longfellow:  Life  of  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  with  Extracts  from  His  Journal 
and  Correspondence,  3  vols.  (Houghton,  1891;  a  combination  of  the  Life  and  Final 
Memorials.  *  vols..  Ticknor,  1886-87;  bibliography).  E.  S  Robertson:  fife  io 


648  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Great  Writers  Series  (Scott,  1887;  bibliography  by  J.  P.  Anderson,  British  Museum). 
— G.  L.  Austin:  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  His  Life,  His  Works,  His  Friendships 
(Lee,  1883;  Lothrop).  H.  A.  Clarke:  Longfellow's  Country  (Baker,  1909). 
W.  D.  Howells:  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintance  (Harper,  1900).  Mary  R- 
Mitford:  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life  (London,  1852).  F.  P.  Stearns:  Cam 
bridge  Sketches  (Lippincott,  1905).  R.  H.  Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and 
Literary  (Barnes,  1903).  F.  H.  Underwood:  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 
(Osgood,  1882;  Houghton).  William  Winter:  Old  Shrines  and  Ivy  (Macmillan, 
1892). 

CRITICISM.  Blackwood's  Magazine,  February,  1852  (The  Golden  Legend). 
Bowdoin  College  Longfellow  Centenary:  Addresses  and  Poem  Read  at  Bowdoin 
College,  June  26,  1907,  in  Commemoration  of  the  Centenary  of  the  Birth  of  Henry 
Wadsworth  Longfellow  (Bowdoin  College,  1908).  E.  W.  Bowen:  Longfellow, 
Twenty  Years  After,  in  the  Sewanee  Review,  April,  1905.  V.  S.  Capalleja:  Estu- 
dios  sobre  Longfellow  (Madrid,  1883).  G.  W.  Curtis:  Literary  and  Social  Essays 
(Harper,  1895).  Thomas  Davidson:  H.  W.  Longfellow,  in  Encyclopaedia  Britan- 
nica.  Louis  D6pret:  La  poesie  en  Ame'rique  (Lille,  1876).  Edinburgh  Review, 
April,  1835.  C.  C.  Felton:  North  American  Review,  July,  1842;  January,  1848 
(Evangeline).  W.  E.  Henley:  Views  and  Reviews  (Scribner,  1890).  0.  W. 
Holmes:  in  Proceedings  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society,  April,  1882. 
W.  D.  Howells:  North  American  Review,  April,  1867.  R.  H.  Hutton:  Criticisms 
on  Contemporary  Thought  and  Thinkers  (Macmillan,  1894).  Karl  Knortz: 
Literar-historische  Studie  (Hamburg,  1879).  Andrew  Lang:  Letters  on  Litera 
ture  (Longmans,  1889).  '  Archibald  MacMechan:  Evangeline  and  the  Real 
Acadians,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  February,  1907.  Maine  Historical  Society's 
Proceedings,  February  27,  May  25,  1882  (Hoyt,  Portland,  1882).  P.  E.  More: 
Shelburne  Essays,  Fifth  Series  (Putnam,  1908).  C.  E.  Norton:  Proceedings  of 
the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society,  April,  1882.  G.  H.  Palmer:  Atlas  Essays, 
No.  2  (Barnes,  1877).  H.  T.  Peck:  Studies  in  Several  Literatures  (Dodd,  1909). 
Bliss  Perry:  Park-Street  Papers  (Houghton,  1908;  this  essay,  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  March,  1907).  E.  A.  Poe:  Works,  Virginia  Edition,  Vols.  10-13  (Crowell, 
1902;  articles  in  Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,  October,  1839  [on  Hyperion], 
February,  1840  [on  Voices  of  the  Night],  in  Graham's  Magazine,  March,  April,  1842 
[on  Ballads  and  Other  Poems],  in  Broadway  Journal,  March  8-April  5,  1845  [on  "The 
Longfellow  War"],  in  American  Whig  Review,  August,^  1845  [on  the  American 
drama,  including  The  Spanish  Student] ).  A.  de  Prins:  Etudes  amdricaines  (Lou- 
vain,  1877).  George  Saintsbury:  Introduction  to  Selected  Poems  of  Longfellow 
(Jack,  1906).  H.  E.  Scudder:  Men  and  Letters  (Houghton,  1887).  R.  B.  Steek: 
The  Poetry  of  Longfellow  (Evangeline,  etc.),  in  the  Sewanee  Review,  April,  1905. 
Bayard  Taylor:  Critical  Essays  and  Literary  Notes  (Putnam,  1880).  W.  P. 
Trent:  Longfellow  and  Other  Essays  (Crowell,  1910).  Anthony  Trollope:  North 
American  Review,  April,  1881.  Hermann  Varnhagen:  Longfellow's  Tales  of  a 
Wayside  Inn  und  ihre  Quellen  (Berlin,  1884).  J.  G.  Whittier:  Evangeline,  in 
Works,  Riverside  Edition,  Vol.  7  (Houghton,  1888,  this  essay,  in  book  form,  1854). 

BIBLIOGRAPHY.  Bibliography  of  the  First  Editions  in  Book  Form  of  the 
Writings  of  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  compiled  by  L.  S.  Livingston  (Dodd, 
1008). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  649 


IAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

EDITIONS.  Complete  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  n  vols.  (Houghton,  1890-92); 
Standard  Library  Edition,  13  vols.  (including  the  life  by  Scudder)  (Houghton,  1891- 
1902);  Elmwood  Edition,  illustrated,  16  vols.  (including  Lowell's  letters  and  the 
life  by  Scudder)  (Houghton,  1904);  Popular  Edition,  6  vols.  (Houghton,  1892) 
Poetical  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  4  vols.  (Houghton,  1890);  Cambridge  Edition 
ed.  by  H.  E.  Scudder  (Houghton,  1896);  Household  Edition  (Houghton,  1895). 
Letters,  ed.  by  C.  E.  Norton,  2  vols.  (Harper,  1894;  also  in  3  vols.,  only  as  a 
part  of  the  Elmwood  Edition  of  the  Complete  Works). 

BIOGRAPHY.  Ferris  Greenslet:  James  Russell  Lowell,  His  Life  and  Work 
(Houghton,  1905).  E.  E.  Hale,  Jr.:  life  in  the  Beacon  Biographies  Series  (Small, 
1899).  H.  E.  Scudder:  James  Russell  Lowell,  a  Biography,  2  vols.  (Houghton, 
1901).  Henry  Van  Dyke:  life  in  the  English  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Macmillan, 
in  preparation). — Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1897  (Conversations  with  Mr. 
Lowell).  E.  E.  Hale:  Lowell  and  His  Friends  (Houghton,  1899).  T.  W.  Higgin- 
son:  Old  Cambridge  (Macmillan,  1899);  Cheerful  Yesterdays  (Houghton,  1898); 
Contemporaries  (Houghton,  1899).  W.  D.  Howells:  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaint 
ance  (Harper,  1900).  Edwin  Mims:  Lowell  as  a  Citizen,  in  the  South  Atlantic 
Quarterly,  January,  1902.  G.  W.  Smalley:  Lowell  in  England,  in  London  Letters 
and  Some  Others  (Harper,  1890).  F.  P.  Stearns:  Cambridge  Sketches  (Lippin- 
cott,  1905).  R.  H.  Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary  (Barnes,  1903). 
J.  T.  Trowbridge:  My  Own  Story  (Houghton,  1903).  M.  C.  Tyler:  Selections 
from  His  Letters  and  Diaries,  ed.  by  Jessica  Tyler  Austin,  pp.  139-43  (Lowell  in 
London  in  1882)  (Doubleday,  1911).  F.  H.  Underwood:  The  Poet  and  the  Man, 
Recollections  and  Appreciations  of  James  Russell  Lowell  (Lee,  1893;  Lothrop). 
Barrett  Wendell:  Lowell  as  a  Teacher,  in  Stelligeri  (Scribner,  1893). 

CRITICISM.  Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1867  (Bigelow  Papers,  Second 
Series).  Joel  Benton:  Lowell's  Americanism,  in  the  Century  Magazine,  Novem 
ber,  1891.  Brownson's  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1849  (The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal, 
etc.).  G.  W.  Curtis:  Orations  and  Addresses,  Vol.  3  (Harper,  1894;  this  address, 
1892).  Edinburgh  Review:  October,  1891;  January,  1900.  Canon  Farrar: 
Forum,  October,  1891.  H.  R.  Haweis:  American  Humourists  (Chatto,  1883). 
Henry  James,  Jr.:  Essays  in  London  and  Elsewhere  (Harper,  1893).  Literary 
World,  June  27,  1885  (Lowell  number).  A.  Mackie:  Nature  Knowledge  in  Modern 
Poetry  (Longmans,  1906).  Nation,  January  27,  1870  (The  Cathedral).  North 
American  Review,  April,  1848;  January,  1849.  C.  E.  Norton:  Harper's  Magazine, 
May,  1893.  E.  A.  Poe:  Works,  Virginia  Edition,  Vols.  n,  13  (Crowell,  1902; 
articles  in  Graham's  Magazine,  March,  1842  [on  Longfellow's  Ballads  and  Other 
Poems],  June,  1842  [on  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America],  March,  1844  [on  Lowell's 
Poems],  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  March,  1849  [on  A  Fable  for  Critics] ). 
Quarterly  Review,  January,  1867  (Biglow  Papers);  July,  1902.  W.  A.  Quayle: 
Modern  Poets  and  Christian  Teaching,  Lowell  (Eaton,  New  York,  Jennings,  Cin 
cinnati,  1906).  R.  H.  Stoddard:  North  American  Review,  October,  1891.  Bayard 
Taylor:  Critical  Essays  and  Literary  Notes  (Putnam,  1880).  G.  E.  Woodberry: 
Makers  of  Literature  (Macmillan,  1900). 


650  AMERICAN  POEMS 


BIBLIOGRAPHY.  A  Bibliography  of  James  Russell  Lowell,  compiled  by  G.  W. 
Cooke  (Houghton,  1906). 

COTTON  MATHER 

EDITIONS.  A  Poem  Dedicated  to  the  Memory  of  the  Reverend  and  Excellent 
Mr.  Urian  Oakes  (Boston,  1682);  reprinted,  The  Club  of  Odd  Volumes  (Boston, 
1896).  An  Elegy  on  the  Much-to-Be-Deplored  Death  of  That  Never-to-Be- 
Forgotten  Person,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Nathaniel  Collins  (Boston,  1685);  reprinted, 
The  Club  of  Odd  Volumes  (Boston,  1896).  Magnalia  Christi  Americana,  or  the 
Ecclesiastical  History  of  New  England  (London,  1702);  reprint,  2  vols.  (Hartford, 
1820,  1855,  1870). 

BIOGRAPHY.  Barrett  Wendell:  life  in  the  Makers  of  America  Series  (Dodd, 
1891).  Outlook,  October  7,  14,  1905  (A  Daughter  of  Cotton  Mather). 

JOHN  MAYLEM 

EDITIONS.  The  Conquest  of  Louisburg  (Boston,  1758).  Gallic  Perfidy 
(Boston,  1758). 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 

EDITIONS.  Complete  Poetical  Works  (Whitaker  &  Ray-Wiggin  Co.,  1897; 
revised  edition).  Poems,  Bear  Edition,  6  vols.  (Whitaker  &  Ray-Wiggin  Co., 
1909-10). 

WILLIAM  MORRELL 

EDITIONS.  New-England,  or  a  Brief  Enarration  of  the  Ayre,  Earth,  Water. 
Fish,  and  Fowles  of  That  Country,  with  a  Description  of  the  Natures,  Orders, 
Habits,  and  Religion  of  the  Natives,  in  Latine  and  English  Verse  (London,  1625); 
reprinted  in  photographic  facsimile,  The  Club  of  Odd  Volumes  (Boston,  1895); 
reprinted,  in  Massachusetts  Historical  Society's  Collections,  Series  i,  Vol.  i. 

JOHN  NEAL 

EDITIONS.  The  Battle  of  Niagara;  and  Goldau,  or  the  Maniac  Harper 
(Baltimore,  1818;  second  edition,  enlarged,  with  other  poems,  1819). 

NICHOLAS  NOYES 

EDITIONS.  A  Praefatory  Poem,  in  Cotton  Mather's  Magnalia  (London,  1702). 
A  Praefatory  Poem,  in  Cotton  Mather's  Christianus  per  Ignem  (London,  1702). 
A  Consolatory  Poem  Dedicated  unto  Mr.  Cotton  Mather  (1703). 

URIAN  OAKES 

EDITIONS.  An  Elegie  upon  the  Death  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Thomas  Shepard 
(Cambridge,  1677);  reprinted,  The  Club  of  Odd  Volumes  (Boston,  1896). 

JONATHAN  ODELL 
EDITION.    The  American  Times  (London,  1780). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  651 


ROBERT  TREAT  PAINE 
EDITION.    The  Ruling  Passion  (Boston,  1797). 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS 
EDITIONS.     Poems  (Ticknor,  1854;  Houghton,  1893). 

ALBERT  PIKE 

EDITIONS.  Prose  Sketches  and  Poems  (Boston,  1834).  Hymns  to  the  Gods, 
in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  June,  1839  (first  eight  hymns).  Nugae  (Philadelphia, 
1854). 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

EDITION.     Poems  (Baltimore,  1825). 

BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM.     C.  H.  Ross,  in  the  Sewanee  Review,  May,  1898. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

EDITIONS.  Complete  Works,  Virginia  Edition,  ed.  by  J.  A.  Harrison,  17  vols. 
(including  biography,  i  vol.,  letters,  i  vol.)  (Crowell,  1902).  Works,  ed.  by  E.  C. 
Stedman  and  G.  E.  Woodberry,  10  vols.  (Stone,  1894-95;  Lawrence).  Works, 
with  Memoir  by  J.  H.  Ingram,  4  vols.  (Black,  1890;  fourth  edition).  Works, 
Knickerbocker  Edition,  ed.  by  C.  F.  Richardson,  10  vols.  (Putnam,  1904).  Com 
plete  Poems  (a  few  now  first  collected),  ed.  by  J.  H.  Whitty  (Houghton,  1911;  text 
ual  notes  and  bibliography).  Poems,  with  prefatory  essay  by  Andrew  Lang  (Paul, 
1881;  Widdleton).  Poems,  ed.  by  C.  W.  Kent  (Macmillan,  1904;  Pocket  Classics 
Series). — Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems  (Boston,  1827);  reprint,  ed.  by  R.  H. 
Shepherd  (Redway,  1884).  Poems  (New  York,  1831).  The  Raven  and  Other 
Poems  (New  York,  1845). 

BIOGRAPHY.  J.  A.  Harrison:  Biography,  in  Works,  Virginia  Edition,  Vol.  i 
(Crowell,  1902).  J.  H.  Ingram:  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  His  Life,  Letters,  and  Opinions, 
2  vols.  (Cassell,  1880;  second  edition,  i  vol.  1886).  John  Macy:  life  in  Beacoo 
Biographies  Series  (Small,  1907).  W.  P.  Trent:  life  in  English  Men  of  Letter* 
Series  (Macmillan,  in  preparation).  G.  E.  Woodberry:  The  Life  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe,  Personal  and  Literary,  with  His  Chief  Correspondence  with  Men  of  Letters, 
2  vols.  (Houghton,  1909;  enlarged  and  corrected  form  of  the  life  in  American  Men 
of  Letters  Series,  1885).— Joel  Benton:  In  the  Poe  Circle,  with  Some  Account  of 
the  Poe-Chivers  Controversy,  and  Other  Poe  Memorabilia  (Mansfield,  1899). 
P.  A.  Bruce:  Background  of  Poe's  University  Life,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly, 
July,  1911.  E.  L.  Didier:  The  Poe  Cult  and  Other  Poe  Papers  (Broadway  Pub 
lishing  Co.,  1909).  R.  A.  Douglass-Lithgow:  Individuality  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe, 
with  Numerous  Scarce  Portraits  (Everett  Publishing  Co.,  1911).  J.  A.  Harrison: 
New  Glimpses  of  Poe  (Mansfield,  1901;  in  the  Independent,  September,  1900). 
C.  W.  Kent:  The  Unveiling  of  the  Bust  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  in  the  Library  of  the 
University  of  Virginia.  October  7,  1899  (Bell,  1901;  Poe's  university  life).  E. 
Lauvriere:  Edgar  Poe,  sa  vie  et  son  oeuvre  (Paris,  1904).  Oliver  Leigh:  Edgar 
.\llan  Poe  (Morris  Co.,  Chicago,  1906;  study  of  the  portraits  of  Poe).  R.  H. 


652  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary  (Barnes,  1903).  Susan  A.  Weiss: 
The  Home  Life  of  Poe  (Broadway  Publishing  Co.,  1907).  Sarah  H.  Whitman: 
Poe  and  His  Critics  (New  York,  1860;  second  edition,  Tibbitts,  1885;  Preston  & 
Rounds  Co.,  Providence).  N.  P.  Willis:  Hurrygraphs  (London  and  New  York, 
1851). 

CRITICISM.  Arvede  Barine:  Essais  de  litte"rature  pathologique,  in  Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes,  July  15,  August  i,  1897.  Charles  Baudelaire:  Edgar  Poe,  sa 
vie  et  ses  oeuvres,  in  Histoires  extraordinaires  (Paris,  1852);  translated  by  H.  Cur- 
wen  (London,  1872).  Edinburgh  Review:  April,  1858;  January,  1910.  J.  P. 
Fruit:  The  Mind  and  Art  of  Poe's  Poetry  ^(Barnes,  1899).  L.  E.  Gates:  Studies 
and  Appreciations  (Macmillan,  1900).  Emile  Hennequin:  Ecrivains  francises 
(Paris,  1889).  C.  W.  Kent:  Introduction  to  Poe's  poems,  Virginia  Edition,  Vol.  7. 
Andrew  Lang:  Letters  to  Dead  Authors  (Scribner,  1893);  prefatory  essay  in  his 
edition  of  Poe's  poems.  J.  R.  Lowell:  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  in  Graham's  Magazine, 
February,  1845;  reprinted  in  Poe's  Works,  Virginia  Edition,  Vol.  i,  and  Stedman 
and  Woodberry's  edition,  Vol.  10.  H.  W.  Mabie:  Poe's  Place  in  American  Litera 
ture,  introduction  to  Vol.  2  of  the  Works,  Virginia  Edition.  J.  A.  Macy:  The 
Fame  of  Poe,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  December,  1908.  Edwin  Markham:  The 
Art  and  Genius  of  Poe,  in  Vol.  i  of  Poe's  Works,  Cameo  Edition  (Funk,  1904). 
William  Minto:  Fortnightly  Review,  July  i,  1880;  reprinted  in  Littell's  Living  Age, 
September  n,  1800.  A.  G.  Newcomer:  The  Poe-Chivers  Tradition  Re-Examined, 
in  the  Sewanee  Review,  January,  1904.  North  American  Review,  October, 
1856.  Arthur  Ransome:  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  a  Critical  Study  (Seeker,  London, 
1910).  J.  M.  Robertson:  New  Essays  towards  a  Critical  Method  (Lane,  1897; 
this  essay,  1885).  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  March,  1850.  A.  C.  Swinburne: 
Under  the  Microscope  (White,  London,  1872).  Arthur  Symons:  Introduction  to 
Lyrical  Poems  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  (Heinemann,  1906).  W.  P.  Trent:  Longfellow 
and  Other  Essays  (Crowell,  1910).  University  of  Virginia:  The  Book  of  the  Poe 
Centenary,  a  Record  of  the  Exercises  of  the  University  of  Virginia,  January  16-19^ 
1909,  ed.  by  C.  W.  Kent  and  J.  S.  Patton  (University  of  Virginia,  1909).  Barrett 
Wendell:  The  Mystery  of  Education  (Scribner,  1909).  Walt  Whitman:  Edgar 
Poe's  Significance,  in  Specimen  Days,  January  i,  1880  (Complete  Prose  Works, 
p.  149)  (Small,  1898). 

BIBLIOGRAPHY.  Material  by  and  about  Edgar  Allan  Poe  to  be  Found  in  the 
Library  of  Columbia  University,  compiled  by  C.  W.  Bragg  (Columbia  University 
Library,  1909). 

JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

EDITION.     Poems,  ed.  M.  P.  Andrews  (Tandy-Thomas  Co.,  New  York,  1910). 
CRITICISM.     J.  W.  Jenkins,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  July,  1008. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

EDITIONS.  Poetical  Works,  3  vols.  (Lippincott,  1866;  revised  edition,  i  vol., 
1882). 

ROBERT  ROGERS 

EDITION.     Ponteach.  or  the  Savages  of  America,  a  Tragedy  (London,  1766) 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  653 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

EDITION.     Poems,  Household  Edition  (Houghton,  1891). 

BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM.  Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1898.  T.  VV.  Hig- 
ginson:  Carlyle's  Laugh  and  Other  Surprises  (Houghton,  1909;  this  essay,  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  March,  1908).  J.  J.  Piatt:  Atlantic  Monthly,  March,  1878. 
Laura  Stedman  and  G.  M.  Gould:  Life  and  Letters  of  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman, 
2  vols.  (Moffat,  1910).  R.  H.  Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary, 
XVIII  (Barnes,  1903). 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

EDITION.     Poems,  Complete  Edition  (Scribner,  1880). 

BIOGRAPHY.  R.  H.  Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary  (Barnes, 
1003). 

BAYARD  TAYLOR 

EDITIONS.  Dramatic  Works,  Household  Edition,  ed.  by  Marie  H.  Taylor 
(Houghton,  1902).  Poetical  Works,  New  Household  Edition,  edited  by  Marie  H. 
Taylor  (Houghton,  1880).  Life  and  Letters,  ed.  by  Marie  H.  Taylor,  and  H.  E. 
Scudder,  2  vols.  (Houghton,  1884). 

BIOGRAPHY.  A.  H.  Smyth:  life  in  American  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Hough- 
ton,  1896).  R.  H.  Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary  (Barnes,  1903). 

HENRY  TIMROD 

EDITIONS.  Poems  (Boston,  1860).  Poems,  with  memoir  by  P.  H.  Hayne 
(Hale,  New  York,  1873).  Poems,  Memorial  Edition  (Timrod  Memorial  Associa 
tion,  1899;  B.  F.  Johnson  Publishing  Co.,  Richmond,  1901).  Some  Fugitive  Poems 
of  Timrod  (three  early  poems  not  in  collected  editions),  reprinted  by  J.  E.  Routh, 
Jr.,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  January,  1903.  An  Unpublished  Poem  of 
Timrod,  printed  by  J.  E.  Routh,  Jr.,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  April,  1908. 

BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM.  Henry  Austin:  International  Review,  Septem 
ber,  1880.  H.  W.  Mabie:  The  Poetry  of  the  South,  in  the  International  Monthly, 
January-June,  1902.  Memorial  Edition:  Introduction.  J.  E.  Routh:  The 
Poetry  of  Henry  Timrod,  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  July,  1910. 

JOHN  TRUMBULL 

EDITIONS.  An  Elegy  on  the  Times  (Boston,  1774).  The  Progress  of  Dulness 
(New  Haven,  1772-73).  McFingal,  a  Modern  Epic  Poem  (Philadelphia,  1775; 
th«  first  form  of 'Cantos  I  and  II).  M'Fingal,  a  Modern  Epic  Poem  in  Four  Cantos 
(Hartford,  1782).  Poetical  Works,  2  vols.  (Hartford,  1820;  memoir). 

PHILLIS  WHEATLEY 
EDITION.     Poems  on  Various  Subjects  (London,  1773). 

WALT  WHITMAN 

EDITIONS.  Leaves  of  Grass,  Including  Sands  at  Seventy,  Good-Bye  My 
Fancy,  A  Backward  Glance  o'er  Travel'd  Roads  (McKay.  1891-02;  the  complete 


654  AMERICAN  POEMS 

poems,  besides  the  prose  work  A  Backward  Glance  o'er  Travel'd  Roads).  Com 
plete  Prose  Works  (Small,  1898;  not  complete).  Complete  Works,  Camden  Edi 
tion,  10  vols.  (Putnam,  1902;  sold  only  by  subscription).  Selections  from  the 
Prose  and  Poetry  of  Walt  Whitman,  ed.  by  O.  L.  Triggs  (Small,  1898).  The 
Wound  Dresser,  a  series  of  Letters  Written  from  the  Hospitals  in  Washington 
during  the  War  of  the  Rebellion,  ed.  by  R.  M.  Bucke  (Small,  1898).  Calamus,  a 
series  of  Letters  Written  during  the  Years  1868-80  to  a  Young  Friend  (Peter 
Doyle),  ed.  by  R.  M.  Bucke  (Small,  1897).  Diary  in  Canada,  with  Extracts  from 
Other  of  His  Diaries  and  Literary  Note-Books,  ed.  by  W.  S.  Kennedy  (Small,  1904). 
An  American  Primer,  ed.  by  Horace  Traubel  (Small,  1904;  notes  for  lectures,  etc.). 
[Mitchell  Kennerley  is  now  the  authorized  publisher  of  Whitman's  works.] 

BIOGRAPHY.  R.  M.  Bucke:  A  Study  of  Walt  Whitman  (McKay,  1883). 
R.  M.  Bucke,  T.  B.  Harned,  H.  L.  Traubel,  editors:  In  Re  Walt  Whitman  (a  col 
lection  of  papers  on  Whitman  by  various  hands)  (McKay,  1893;  a  supplement  to 
Bucke's  biography).  R.  M.  Bucke,  T.  B.  Harned,  H.  L.  Traubel:  life  in  Works, 
Camden  Edition,  Vol.  i.  G.  R.  Carpenter:  life  in  English  Men  of  Letters  Series 
(Macmillan,  1909).  Bliss  Perry:  Walt  Whitman,  His  Life  and  Work  (Houghton, 
1906).  I.  H.  Platt:  life  in  Beacon  Biographies  Series  (Small,  1904). — H.  B.  Binns: 
Life  of  Walt  Whitman  (Dutton,  1906).  John  Burroughs:  Notes  on  Walt  Whit 
man  as  Poet  and  Person  (Somerby,  1867;  Houghton).  Ellen  M.  Calder:  Personal 
Recollections  of  Walt  Whitman,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  June,  1907.  Camden's 
Compliment  to  Walt  Whitman,  May  31,  1889,  ed.  by  H.  L.  Traubel  (addresses  by 
R.  W.  Gilder,  Hamlin  Garland,  and  others;  letters  from  W.  M.  Rossetti,  Morris, 
Dowden,  Stedman,  Ho  wells,  Whittier,  and  others)  (McKay,  1889).  Edward 
Carpenter:  Days  with  Walt  Whitman,  with  Some  Notes  on  His  Life  and  Work 
(Macmillan,  1908).  M.  D.  Conway:  Fortnightly  Review,  October  15,  1866). 
Thomas  Donaldson:  Walt  Whitman  the  Man  (F.  P.  Harper,  1896).  E.  P.  Gould: 
Anne  Gilchrist  and  Walt  Whitman  (McKay,  1900).  John  Johnston:  Diary  Notes 
of  a  Visit  to  Walt  Whitman  and  Some  of  His  Friends,  in  1890  (London,  1898). 
W.  S.  Kennedy:  Reminiscences  of  Walt  Whitman,  with  Extracts  from  His  Letters 
and  Remarks  on  His  Writings  (Gardner,  London,  1896;  McKay)  W.  D.  O'Con 
nor:  The  Good  Gray  Poet,  a  Vindication  (New  York,  1866);  reprinted  in  In  Re 
Walt  Whitman.  C.  M.  Skinner:  Walt  Whitman  as  an  Editor,  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  November,  1903.  H.  L.  Traubel:  With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,  2 
vols.  (Small,  1906,  1908);  With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden  (additional  notes  of 
conversations,  November,  i888-January,  1889),  in  the  Forum,  October,  1911- 
January,  1912;  Lowell-Whitman,  a  Contrast,  in  Poet-Lore,  January,  1892.  J.  T. 
Trowbridge:  Reminiscences  of  Walt  Whitman,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  February, 
1902;  My  Own  Story  (Houghton,  1903).  Walt  Whitman:  Autographia,  selected 
from  His  Prose  Writings  (Webster,  1892). 

CRITICISM.  Robert  Buchanan:  The  American  Socrates,  in  A  Look  around 
Literature  (Ward,  1887).  John  Burroughs:  Whitman,  a  Study  (Houghton,  1896). 
J.  J.  Chapman:  Emerson  and  Other  Essays  (Scribner,  1898).  William  Clarke: 
Walt  Whitman  (Macmillan,  1892).  Edward  Dowden:  Studies  in  Literature  (Paul, 
1889;  this  essay,  in  the  Westminster  Review,  July,  1871).  Havelock  Ellis:  The 
New  Spirit  (Scott,  1890).  Ralph  W.  Emerson:  letter  to  Whitman,  July  21,  1855. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  655 


printed  in  Carpenter's  life  of  Whitman,  pp.  65,  66.  Edmund  Gosse:  Critical  Kit- 
Kats  (Heinemann,  1896).  F.  B.  Gummere:  Democracy  and  Poetry  (Houghton, 
IQII).  T.  W.  Higginson:  Contemporaries  (Houghton,  1899).  Edmond  Holmes: 
Walt  Whitman's  Poetry,  a  Study  and  a  Selection  (Lane,  1902).  Mary  A.  DeWolfe 
Howe:  The  Spell  of  Whitman,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  December,  1906.  Mabel 
M.  Irwin:  Whitman  the  Poet-Liberator  of  Woman  (Published  by  the  Author,  New 
York,  1005).  Henry  James,  Jr.:  Views  and  Reviews  (Ball  Publishing  Co.,  1908; 
this  essay,  in  Literature,  April  16,  May  7,  1898).  Karl  Knortz:  Walt  Whitman 
(Bartsch,  New  York,  1886).  Sidney  Lanier:  To  Bayard  Taylor,  February  3, 1878,  in 
Letters  (Scribner,  1899);  The  English  Novel,  Lecture  3  (Scribner,  1883).  H.  W. 
Mabie:  America  in  the  Poems  of  Walt  Whitman,  in  Backgrounds  of  Literature 
(Macmillan,  1903).  Andrew  Macphail:  Essays  in  Puritanism  (Houghton,  1905). 
Mila  T.  Maynard:  Walt  Whitman,  the  Poet  of  the  Wider  Selfhood  (Kerr,  1903). 
P.  E.  More:  Shelburne  Essays,  Fourth  Series  (Putnam,  1906).  Roden  Noel: 
Essays  on  Poetry  and  Poets  (Paul,  1886).  C.  E.  Noyes:  Approach  to  Walt  Whit 
man  (Houghton,  1910).  Arthur  Rickett:  The  Vagabond  in  Literature  (Dutton, 
1906).  W.  M.  Rossetti:  Prefatory  Notice  to  his  edition  of  Whitman's  selected 
poems  (Hotten,  London,  1868).  W.  M.  Salter:  The  Great  Side  of  Walt  Whitman, 
The  Questionable  Side  of  Walt  Whitman  (Weston,  Philadelphia,  1899).  George 
Santayana:  The  Poetry  of  Barbarism,  in  Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion 
(Scribner,  1900).  R.  L.  Stevenson:  Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books  (Chatto, 
1882;  Scribner).  A.C.Swinburne:  Under  the  Microscope  (White,  London,  1872); 
Studies  in  Prose  and  Poetry  (Chatto,  1894;  Scribner).  J.  A.  Symonds:  Demo 
cratic  Art,  with  Special  Reference  to  Walt  Whitman,  in  Essays  Speculative  and 
Suggestive,  Vol.  2  (Chapman,  1890);  Walt  Whitman,  a  Study  (Nimmo,  1893; 
Routledge;  Dutton).  W.  R.  Thayer:  Throne-Makers  and  Portraits  (Houghton, 
1899).  James  Thomson  ("B.  V."):  Walt  Whitman,  the  Man  and  the  Poet  (Dobell, 
1910).  O.  L.  Triggs:  Browning  and  Whitman,  a  Study  in  Democracy  (Macmillan. 
1893).  W.  G.  Van  Nouhuys:  Walt  Whitman  ('s-Gravenhage,  1895). 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

EDITIONS.  Complete  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  7  vols.  (Houghton,  1888); 
Standard  Library  Edition,  illustrated,  9  vols.  (including  Life  and  Letters  by  Pick- 
ard)  (Houghton,  1892-94).  Poetical  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  4  vols.  (Houghton, 
1888);  Cambridge  Edition,  ed.  by  H.  E.  Scudder  (Houghton,  1894);  New  House 
hold  Edition  (Houghton,  1891).  Whittier  Correspondence  from  the  Oak  Knoll 
Collections,  ed.  by  J.  Albree  (Essex  Book  and  Print  Club,  Salem,  1911). 

BIOGRAPHY.  Richard  Burton:  life  in  Beacon  Biographies  Series  (Small,i9oi). 
G.  R.  Carpenter:  life  in  American  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Houghton,  1903).  T.  W. 
Higginson:  life  in  English  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Macmillan,  1902).  W.  J.  Linton: 
life  in  Great  Writers  Series  (Scott,  1893;  bibliography  by  J.  P.  Anderson,  British 
Museum).  S.  T.  Pickard:  Life  and  Letters  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  2  vols. 
(Houghton,  1894). — Mary  B.  Claflin:  Personal  Recollections  of  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier  (Crowell,  1893).  Mrs.  J.  T.  Fields:  Notes  of  His  Life  and  of  His  Friend 
ships  (Harper,  1893).  Edmund  Gosse:  A  Visit  to  Whittier,  in  the  Bookman,  Jan 
uary,  1899.  W.  S.  Kennedy:  John  G.  Whittier.  the  Poet  of  Freedom,  in  American 


656  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Reformers  Series  (Funk,  1892).  Mary  R.  Mitford:  Recollections  of  a  Literary 
Life  (London,  1852).  Elizabeth  S.  Phelps:  Century  Magazine,  January,  1893 
S.  T.  Pickard:  Whittier-Land  (Houghton,  1904);  Whittier  as  a  Politician,  Illus 
trated  by  His  Letters  to  Professor  Elizur  Wright,  Jr.  (Goodspeed,  Boston,  1900). 
R.  H.  Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary  (Barnes,  1903).  J.  T. 
Trowbridge:  My  Own  Story  (Houghton,  1903).  F.  H.  Underwood:  John  Green- 
leaf  Whittier,  a  Biography  (Osgood,  1883;  Houghton).  G.  E.  Woodberry :  Atlantic 
Monthly,  November,  1892.  A.  J.  Woodman:  Reminiscences  of  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier's  Life  at  Oak  Knoll,  Danvers,  Mass.  (Essex  Institute,  1908). 

CRITICISM.  Atlantic  Monthly:  November,  1860;  March,  1866  (Snow-Bound). 
A.  C.  Benson:  Introduction  to  Whittier's  Selected  Poems  (Jack,  1906).  D.  H. 
Bishop:  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  January,  1908.  D.  G.  Brace:  Whittier  as  an 
Anti-Slavery  Poet,  in  the  Columbia  Monthly,  April-May,  1904.  Thomas  Chase: 
Oration,  in  Proceedings  at  the  Presentation  of  a  Portrait  of  Whittier  to  Friends' 
School,  Providence  (Riverside  Press,  1885).  Caroline  H.  Dall:  Barbara  Frietchie, 
a  Study  (Roberts  Brothers,  1892).  C.  J.  Hawkins:  The  Mind  of  Whittier,  a  Study 
of  Whittier's  Fundamental  Religious  Ideas  (Whittaker,  1904).  W.  S.  Kennedy: 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  His  Life,  Genius,  and  Writings  (Lothrop,  1886).  D.  L. 
Maulsby:  Whittier's  New  Hampshire,  in  the  New  England  Magazine,  August  22, 
1900.  Bliss  Perry:  Whittier  for  To-Day,  in  Park-Street  Papers  (Houghton,  1908; 
this  essay,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  December,  1907).  Bayard  Taylor:  Critical 
Essays  and  Literary  Notes  (Putnam,  1880).  Barrett  Wendell:  Stelligeri  (Scribner, 
1893).  G.  E.  Woodberry:  Makers  of  Literature  (Macmillan,  1900). 

MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH 

EDITIONS.  The  Day  of  Doom,  or  a  Poetical  Description  of  the  Great  and  Last 
Judgment  (Boston  [?],  1662);  Boston,  1715,  sixth  edition);  reprint  of  the  sixth 
edition,  with  memoir,  autobiography,  and  sketch  of  Wigglesworth's  character  by 
Cotton  Mather,  ed.  by  W.  H.  Burr  (American  News  Co.,  1867).  Meat  out  of  the 
Eater,  or  Meditations  concerning  the  Necessity,  End,  and  Usefulness  of  Afflictions 
unto  God's  Children  (Boston  [?],  1669;  Boston,  1717,  fifth  edition).  God's  Con 
troversy  with  New-England,  Written  in  the  Time  of  the  Great  Drought,  Anno  1662 
(first  printed  in  the  Proceedings  of  the  Massachusetts  Historial  Society,  May,  1871). 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS 

EDITION.     Poems  (New  York,  1868). 

BIOGRAPHY.  H.  A.  Beers:  life  in  American  Men  of  Letters  Series  (Houghton, 
1885;  bibliography).  R.  H.  Stoddard:  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary 
(Barnes,  1903). 


INDICES 


INDICES 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Aldrich,   Thomas   Bailey    (1836-1907), 

483 
Anonymous,  2,  30,  36,  42,  46,  68,  69,  70, 

7i,  75,  ?6,  506 
B.W.,  28 

Barlow,  Joel  (1754-1812),  116 
Brackenridge,  Hugh  H.  (1748-1816),  78 
Bradstreet,  Anne  (1613-72),  4 
Bryant,    William    Cullen    (1794-1878), 

178 

Butler,  William  Allen  (1825-1902),  480 
Byles,  Mather  (1707-88),  44 
Gary,  Alice  (1820-71),  523 
Cook,  Ebenezer,  39 
Cook,  John  Esten  (1830-86),  509 
Cooke,  Philip  Pendleton  (1816-50),  177 
Cutler,  Elbridge  J.  (1831-70),  512 
Dickinson,  Emily  (1830-86),  533 
Dickinson,  John  (1732-1808),  66 
Drake,    Joseph    Rodman    (1795-1820), 

161 

Dudley,  Thomas  (1576-1653),  29 
Dwight,  Timothy  (1752-1817),  108 

E.B.,  30 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo  (1803-82),  309 

Freneau,  Philip  (1752-1832),  133 

G.W.Y.,  505 

Godfrey,  Thomas  (1736-63),  53 
Grave,  John,  35 
Green,  Joseph  (1706-80),  45 
Halleck,  Fitz-Greene  (1790-1867),  171 
Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton  (1830-86),  494 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell  (1809-94),  375 
Hopkinson,  Francis  (1737-91),  73 
Howe,  Julia  Ward  (1819-1910),  507 
Humphreys,  David  (1753-1818),  106 
Johnson,  Edward  (1599-1672),  3 
Knight,  Henry  C.,  170 
Lanier,  Sidney  (1849-81),  523 


Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth  (1807- 

82),  230 

Lowell,  James  Russell  (1819-91),  387 
M.W.M.,  510 

Mather  (?),  Cotton  (1663-1728),  33 
Maylem,  John,  51 
Miller,  Joaquin  (1841-         ),  524 
Morrell,  William,  i 
N.R.  (Cotton  Mather?),  33 
Neal,  John  (1793-1876),  158 
Noyes,  Nicholas  (1647-1717),  37 
Oakes,  Urian  (1631-81),  31 
Odell,  Jonathan  (1737-1818),  77 
Paine,  Robert  Treat  (1773-1811),  156 
Palmer,  John  W.  (1825-96),  508 
Parsons    Thomas    William    (1819-92), 

478 

Pike,  Albert  (1809-91),  498 
Pinkney,  Edward  Coate  (1802-28),  174 
Plumly,  B.  Rush  (1816-87),  501 
Poe,  Edgar  Allan  (1809-49),  209 
Randall,  James  R.  (1839—1908),  499 
Read,  Thomas  Buchanan  (1822-72),  512 
Rogers,  Robert,  60 
Stanton,  Harriet,  497 
Stedman,    Edmund    Clarence    (1833- 

1908),  516 
Stoddard,  Richard  Henry  (1825-1903), 

475 

Taylor,  Bayard  (1825-78),  436 
Thompson,  Will  Henry  (1848-        ),  514 
Timrod,  Henry  (1829-67),  488 
Trumbull,  John  (1750-1831),  87 
Wheatley,  Phillis  (i754?-84),  66 
Whitman,  Walt  (1810-92),  443 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf  (1807-92),  328 
Wigglesworth,  Michael  (1631-1705),  19 
Wilde,  Richard  Henry  (1789-1847),  157 
Williams,  Thomas,  502 
Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker  (1806-67),  *75 


659 


66o 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


A  Consolatory  Poem,  38 

A  Fable  for  Critics,  409 

A  Forest  Hymn,  192 

A  Health,  174 

A  Letter  to  Her  Husband,  17 

A  Little  While  I   Fain   Would   Linger 

Yet,  496 
A  March  in  the  Ranks  Hard-Prest  and 

the  Road  Unknown,  460 
A  New  Song,  68 
A  Night-Attack  by  Cavalry  (from  The 

Battle  of  Niagara),  158 
A  Poem  Dedicated  to  the  Memory  of 

the    Reverend    and    Excellent    Mr. 

Urian  Oakes,  33 
A  Praefatory  Poem,  37 
A  Psalm  of  Life,  231 
A  Song  of  Sion,  35 
A  Summer  Ramble,  197 
A  Summer's  Day,  170 
A  Threnodia,  30 
A  Winter  Piece,  184 
Abraham  Davenport,  352 
After  the  Battle  of  Bull  Run,  506 
After  the  Rain,  486 

An  Elegie  upon  the  Death  of  the  Rev 
erend  Mr.  Thomas  Shepard,  31 
An  Elegy  Address'd  to  His  Excellency 

Governour  Belcher,  44 
An  Hymn  to  the  Evening,  66 
An  Incident  of  the  War,  510 
An  Indian-Summer  Reverie,  401 
Annabel  Lee,  228 

Bacons  Epitaph,  36 

Baltimore,  501 

Barbara  Frietchie,  350 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,  507 

Beaver  Brook,  419 

Bedouin  Song,  438 

Before  the  Rain,  485 

Brahma,  326 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink,  230 

Cavalry  Crossing  a  Ford,  457 
Cavalry-Song.  512 
Charleston,  490 


Children,  283 

Come  up  from  the  Fields,  Father,  458 

Commencement,  46 

Contemplations,  10 

Days,  325 

Divina  Commedia,  309 

Dixie,  498 

Each  and  All,  310 

Eldorado,  229 

Evangeline,  243;  Part  the  First,  244; 
Part  the  Second,  263 

Evening  (from  A  Summer's  Day),  171 

Evening  (from  Summer  by  the  Lake 
side),  336 

Faces,  446 
Florence  Vane,  177 
Forbearance,  325 

God's  Controversy  with  New-England, 

27 

Good-Bye,  309 
Good-Bye,  My  Fancy,  474 
Greenfield  Hill:   Part  II,  no;   Part  IV, 

112 

Hiawatha's  Childhood  (from  the  Song 

of  Hiawatha),  285 
Hiawatha's  Fishing  (from  The  Song  of 

Hiawatha),  290 

How  Love  Looked  for  Kell,  530 
How  Old  Brown  Took  Harper's  Ferry, 

Si6 

Hymn  of  Trust,  387 
Hymn  Sung  at  the  Completion  of  the 

Concord  Monument,  312 
Hymn  to  the  Night,  233 
I  Died  for  Beauty,  533 
I  Hear  It  Was  Charged  against  Me,  453 
I  Know  Not  Why,  but  All  This  Weary 

Day,  493 
Ichabod,  332 

In  Cabin'd  Ships  at  Sea,  471 
In  the  Garden,  535 
In  Yosemite  Valley,  524 
Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood, 

182 
Israfel,  212 


INDICES 


661 


June,  195 

Lake    Ontario    (from    the    Battle    of 

Niagara),  160 
Leonatus,  475 
Lines  Written  at  the  Approach  of  Death, 

29 
Longing  for  Heaven,  18 

M'Fingal:   Canto  I,  95;    Canto  III,  99 

Marco  Bozzaris,  171 

Maryland!     My  Maryland,  499 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia,  328 

Maud  Muller,  337 

Monument  Mountain,  189 

Morning  (from  A  Summer's  Day),  170 

My  Aunt,  376 

My  Lost  Youth,  301 

My  Playmate,  348 

Nathan  Hale,  71 

New-England,  i 

New  England  Elegies,  28 

Night  and  Day,  525 

Noon  (from  A  Summer's  Day),  170 

Noon  (from  Summer  by  the  Lakeside), 

334 
Nothing  to  Wear,  480 

O  Captain!     My  Captain,  461 

Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commem 
oration,  427 

Of  the  Four  Ages  of  Man,  5 

Oh  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids,  187 

Ohio  Fair  and  Free,  505 

Old  Ironsides,  375 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante,  478 

On  a  Honey  Bee,  153 

On  Ralph  Partridge,  30 

One's-Self  I  Sing,  469 

Our  Love  is  Not  a  Fading,  Earthly 
Flower,  387 

Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking, 
447 

Pampinea,  486 
Pan  in  Wall  Street,  520 
Paul  Revere's  Ride,  305 
Pioneers!     O  Pioneers,  454 
Poems  of  the  Civil  War,  497 


Poems  of  the  Revolution,  66 
Ponteach:  Act  I.  Scene  i,  60;  Act  II. 

Scene  2,  64 
Proem,  331 
Psalme  23  A  Psalme  of  David  (from  the 

Whole  Booke  of  Psalmes),  a 
Psalme  93  (from  the  Whole  Booke  of 

Psalmes),  2 
Psalme  133  (from  The  Whole  Booke  of 

Psalmes),  3 

Rhoecus,  388 

Roaring  Brook,  175 

Robert  of  Lincoln,  205 

Serenade,  237 

Sheridan's  Ride,  512 

Simplicity,  536 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,  344 

Snow-Bound,  354 

Sometimes,  523 

Song  for  "The  Jacquerie,"  526 

Song  from  "Al  Aaraaf,"  209 

Song  of  Lovewell's  Fight,  42 

Song  of  Marion's  Men.  200 

Song  of  Myself,  443 

Sonnet — to  Science,  209 

Spirit  That  Form'd  This  Scene,  473 

Spring,  491 

Spring  (from  The  Four  Seasons  of  the 

Year),  7 
Stanzas,  157 

Starting  from  Paumanok,  453 
Stonewall  Jackson's  Way,  508 
Summer  by  the  Lakeside:  I,  334;  II 

336 

Summer  Wind,  188 
Telling  the  Bees,  346 
Terminus,  327 
Thanatopsis,  179 
The  Adventures  of  Miss  Harriet  Simper 

(from  The  Progress  of  Dulness,  Part 

HI),  9i 
The  Adventures  of  Tom  Brainless  (from 

The  Progress  of  Dulness,  Part  I),  87 
The  American  Times,  77 
The  Apology,  312 
The  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell,  483 
The  Barefoot  Boy,  341 


662 


AMERICAN  POEMS 


The   Battle  of   Bunkers-Hill:     Act   V. 

Scene  i,  78;  Scene  2,  79;  Scene  3,  80; 

Scene  4,  81;  Scene  5,  82;  Scene  6,  83; 

Scene  7,  83;  Scene  8,  84;  Scene  9,  84; 

Scene  10  and  Last,  85 
The  Battle  of  Niagara,  158 
The  Battle  of  the  Kegs,  73 
The  Beauties  of  Santa  Cruz,  133 
The  Bells,  225 
The  Biglow  Papers:  No.  I,  394;  No.  II, 

398 

"The  Boys,"  385 
The  British  Light-Infantry,  75 
The  British  Prison  Ship,  143 
The  Chambered  Nautilus,  381 
The  Children's  Hour,  303 
The  City  in  the  Sea,  213 
The  Columbiad,  121 
The  Comet,  379 
The  Conqueror  Worm,  218 
The  Conquest  of  Canaan,  108 
The  Conquest  of  Louisburg,  51 
The  Court  of  Fancy,  54 
The  Courtin',  424 
The  Culprit  Fay,  161 
The  Day  Is  Done,  240 
The  Day  of  Doom,  19 
The  Deacon's  Masterpiece,  382 
The  Death  of  Lincoln,  208 
The  Embargo,  178 
The  Eternal  Goodness,  373 
The  Evening  Wind,  199 
The    Famine    (from    The    Song    of 

Hiawatha),  296 

The  Fight  of  Paso  del  Mar,  436 
The  Four  Monarchyes,  9 
The  Four  Seasons  of  the  Year,  7 
The  Happiness  of  America,  106 
The    Hasty-Pudding:     Canto    I,    124; 

Canto  II,  128;   Canto  III,  130 
The  Haunted  Palace,  217 
The  Heart  of  Louisiana,  497 
The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg,  514 
The  Hour  of  Quiet  Ecstacy  (from  The 

Battle  of  Niagara),  160 
The  House  of  Night,  135 
The  Humble-Bee,  313 


The  Indian  Burying  Ground,  149 

The  Invitation,  53 

The  Last  Leaf,  377 

The  Liberty  Song,  66 

The  Lily  Confidante,  488 

The  Lovers,  534 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn,  527 

The  Mocking-Birds,  494 

The  New  England  Sabbath-Day  Chace, 

150 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,  241 
The  Old  Year  and  the  New,  76 
The  Poet's  Lamentation  for  the  Loss  of 

His  Cat,  45 

The  Political  Balance,  145 
The  Prairies,  202 

The  Prince  of  Parthia,  a  Tragedy,  56 
The  Problem,  315 
The  Progress  of  Dulness:    Part  I,  87; 

Part  III,  91 
The  Prologue,  4 
The  Quaker  Widow,  440 
The  Rainy  Day,  238 
The  Raven,  219 

The  Republican  Genius  of  Europe,  152 
The  Rhodora,  310 
The  Ruling  Passion,  156 
The  Ship  in  the  Desert,  525 
The  Singer  in  the  Prison,  469 
The  Slave's  Dream,  238 
The  Sleeper,  215 
The  Snake,  536 
The  Snow-Storm,  324 
The  Song  of  Hiawatha:   III,  285;  VIII. 

290;   XX,  296 
The  Song  of  the  Rebel,  509 
The  Sot- Weed  Factor,  39 
The  Sphinx,  320 
The  Stars  and  Stripes,  502 
The  Village  Blacksmith,  236 
The  Vision  of  Columbus:   Book  I,  116; 

Book  V,  120 
The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal:    Prelude  to 

Part    First,    410;     Part    First,    413; 

Prelude  to  Part  Second,  415;    Part 

Second,  416 
The  Washers  of  the  Shroud,  421 


INDICES 


663 


The  Way  I  Read  a  Letter  's  This,  534 
The  Whole  Booke  of  Psalmes:    23,  2; 

93,  2;   133,  3 

The  Wild  Honey  Suckle,  148 
The  Wind  and  Stream,  207 
The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  233 
The  Yankee's  Return  from  Camp,  70 
The  Yellow  Violet,  181 
To  a  Caty-Did,  154 
To  a  Waterfowl,  183 
To  Fight  Aloud  is  Very  Brave,  533 
To  Helen,  211 
To  One  in  Paradise,  216 
To  the  Dandelion,  392 
To  the  Fringed  Gentian,  200 
To  the  Man-of- War-Bird,  473 
To  the  Memory  of  the  Brave  Americans, 

144 

To  the  Nile,  439 
Ulalume,  223 
Unseen  Spirits,  176 


Upon  the  Tomb  of  the  Most  Reverend 

Mr.  John  Cotton,  28 
Urania,  381 

Vigil  Strange  I  Kept  on  the  Field  One 

Night,  459 

Virginia  Banishing  Tea,  69 
Voluntaries,  326 

Weariness,  308 

Wendell  Phillips,  388 

When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astronomer, 

454 
When    Lilacs    Last    in    the    Dooryard 

Bloom'd,  462 

Whispers  of  Heavenly  Death,  469 
With  Husky-Haughty  Lips,  O  Sea,  474 
Wonder-Working  Providence  of  Sions 

Saviour  in  New-England,  3 
Wood-Notes:  Part  I,  316 
Wordsworth,  333 

Yet,  Yet,  Ye  Downcast  Hours,  472 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

A  bird  came  down  the  walk 535 

A  brook  came  stealing  from  the  ground 207 

A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field 5*4 

A  deadly  ball  hath  limited  my  life 81 

\  line  in  long  array  where  they  wind  betwixt  green  islands       ....  457 

A  little  while  (my  life  is  almost  set!) 496 

A  living  breathing  Bible:  Tables  where         .........  28 

A  march  in  the   ranks  hard-prest,  and  the  road  unknown          ....  460 

A  musket-ball,  death-wing'd,  hath  pierc'd  my  groin 84 

A  narrow  fellow  in  the  grass :       ...  S3& 

A  Stone  more  then  the  Eben-ezcr  fam'd 3° 

Ah  me,  while  up  the  long,  long  vale  of  time .112 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where 4ai 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky     .                       324 

Another  four  I've  left  yet  to  bring  on     .                      7 

Are  these  the  folk  whom  from  the  brittish  lies 27 

As  Jove  the  Olympian  (who  both  I  and  you  know 14$ 

As  near  beauteous  Boston  lying 68 

As  weary  pilgrim  now  at  rest 18 

At  EUTAW  springs  the  valiant  died         .       ,- 144 


664  AMERICAN  POEMS 


At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent     .       .       . 171 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June 215 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down 375 

Be  firm!     One  constant  element  in  luck 381 

Be  silent  now,  all  People,  young  and  old 35 

Begone,  pernicious,  baneful  tea 69 

Beside  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay 238 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight         .     " « 3°3 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man 34 1 

Blood  of  loyal  Massachusetts 501 

Brothers  of  free  descent  were  we,  and  native  to  the  soil 502 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee         .        .               . 313 

But  that  so  many  mouths  can  witness  it               83 

By  some  sad  means,  when  Reason  holds  no  sway 135 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood       .       . 312 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 400 

Come  join  hand  in  hand,  brave  Americans  all       .......  66 

Come,  my  tan-faced  children    . .       .  454 

Come,  stack  arms,  men!    Pile  on  the  rails 508 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children       .       .    ' ' .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  283 

Come  up  from  the  fields,  father,  here  's  a  letter  from  our  Pete    .        .               .  458 

Curse  on  the  fortune  of  BRITANNIA'S  arms 82 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days        .       .       .       ...       .       .       .325 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  Way 392 

Dear  friends  who  read  the  world  aright         .       . 333 

Death,  why  soe  ere  will  ?  what,  no  other  way 36 

Dim  Eyes,  deaf  Ears,  cold  stomack  shew      •.' 29 

Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak 415 

Downward  through  the  evening  twilight        .       .  '• 285 

Eager  he  look'd:  another  train  of  years 121 

Emperors  and  kings!   in  vain  you  strive 152 

Fair  flower  that  dost  so  comely  grow 148 

Fair  Verna,  loveliest  village  of  the  west no 

Father  and  I  went  down  to  camp 7° 

Fear  not,  brave  soldiers,  tho'  their  infantry 70 

First  from  the  dust  our  sex  began 91 

For  this  present,  hard 316 

Forth  upon  the  Gitche  Gumee 290 

From  silent  night,  true  Register  of  moans 3 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee      .       .    • 438 

Gaily  bedight 229 

Gallants,  attend,  and  hear  a  friend         . 73 

Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 527 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 424 


INDICES  665 


God  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age 388 

Good-bye,  my  Fancy 474 

Good-bye,  proud  world!     I'm  going  home 309 

Gusty  and  raw  was  the  morning              . 436 

Hark!  hark!  the  bugle's  lofty  sound        .    ' 75 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys 385 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun 325 

Haste,  Sylvia,  haste,  my  charming  maid 53 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay 382 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 483 

He  comes,  Arsaces  comes!  my  gallant  Brother 56 

He  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  threshold:   wide 38? 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells 225 

Hear  thy  indictment,  Washington,  at  large 77 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 211 

Here  is  the  place:  right  over  the  hill 346 

Here  sleeps  ONTARIO.     Old  Ontario,  hail 160 

How  good  and  sweet,  o  see 3 

How  happy  is  the  little  stone 536 

Hushed  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill 419 

I  celebrate  myself,  and  sing  myself 443 

I  conn'd  old  times 453 

I  died  for  beauty,  but  was  scarce 533 

fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone 174 

gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky 195 

hear  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I  sought  to  destroy  institutions       .        .  453 

heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 233 

know  not  why,  but  all  this  weary  day 493 

like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl 315 

love  the  old  melodious  lays 331 

loved  thee  long  and  dearly     .       . 177 

saw  him  once  before        . 377 

sing  the  day,  bright  with  peculiar  charms 46 

thought  it  proper  to  provide 39 

If  the  red  slayer  thinks  he  slays 326 

In  a  branch  of  willow  hid 154 

In  an  age  of  fops  and  toys 326 

In  cabin'd  ships  at  sea 471 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 212 

In  May,  when  sea- winds  pierced  our  solitudes 310 

In  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said 149 

In  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin  of  Minas          ....  244 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 217 

In  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 352 

It  is  a  sultry  day:   the  sun  has  drunk i38 


666  AMERICAN  POEMS 


It  is  that  hour  of  quiet  ecstacy 160 

It  is  time  to  be  old 327 

It  was  a  mountain  stream  that  with  the  leap 175 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 228 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 233 

John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee  farmer         .       .       .516 

Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front         « 520 

Life  is  a  print-shop,  where  the  eye  may  trace       .               156 

Lily,  lady  of  the  garden     ............  488 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear         .......        .  305 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 310 

Lo,  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 213 

Lo  now  four  other  act  upon  the  stage 5 

Lo,  't  is  a  gala  night 218 

Long  had  the  Sage,  the  first  who  dar'd  to  brave          .       .        '.       .       .       .116 

Look  where  we  will,  and  in  whatever  land 178 

Lying  by  the  summer  sea 486 

Many  a  weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning  of  Grand-Pre"        .       .        .  263 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day .  337 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed 205 

Mindless  of  Grandieur,  from  the  Crowd  he  fled .  44 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord           ....  507 

Miss  Flora  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square 480 

My  aunt  1  my  dear  unmarried  aunt 376 

"  My  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me "      . 413 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose        .        . 157 

My  Sons,  and  trusty  Counsellor  Tenesco       .       .       .       .       .       .  '     .       .  64 

Mysterious  Flood,  that  through  the  silent  sands         .        .       .       .  •      .        .  439 

Neath  blue-bell  or  streamer 209 

Next  o're  the  Helespont  a  bridge  he  made 9 

Now  near  the  stream  approach'd  the  sounding  war 108 

Now  warm  with  ministerial  ire 99 

Now  where  the  sheeted  flames  thro'  Charlestown  roar 120 

0  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done 461 

0  friends  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod         .       .       .....       .       .       .  373 

O  little  feet,  that  such  long  years    .       .       .       ...       .       .       .       .       .308 

O  Love  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share     .........  387 

O  loved  more  and  more 4°9 

0  sight  of  pity,  shame  and  dole 469 

O  the  long  and  dreary  Winter                                         < 296 

Observed  ye  the  cloud  on  that  mountain's  dim  green 158 

O'ercome  with  weariness  and  care 51° 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time    .                      344 


INDICES  667 


Of  worthy  Captain  LOVE  WELL  I  purpose  now  to  sing 42 

Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 309 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 301 

Oh,  all  day  long  they  flood  with  song 494 

Oh  fairest  of  the  rural  maids •       •       .  187 

Oh,  let  me  weep,  while  o'er  our  land •       •       •       .  497 

Oh  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare •       •       . .      .  208 

Oh  that  I  were  a  Poet  now  in  grain 31 

Ohio  fair,  thou  art  to  me •       •       i       .  505 

On  a  fine  Sunday  morning  I  mounted  my  steed    .......  150 

On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell .  230 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary    .       .       .219 

One  form  alone  remains  behind ,  509 

One's-Self  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person 469 

Oppress'd  with  grief,  in  heavy  strains  I  mourn     ...»•«.  45 

Our  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried .       •       .  200 

Our  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower          ........  387 

Our  men,  advancing,  have  received  dire  loss         ...«,,.  80 

"  Our  Tom  has  grown  a  sturdy  boy "      .                               87 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking 447 

Over  his  keys  the  musing  organist           .........  410 

Phtebus,  make  haste:  the  day  's  too  long;  be  gone 17 

R  un  is  his  Race ...30 

Sadly  and  low 506 

Science,  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art         ........  209 

See  AMHERST  now  his  warlike  Squadrons  range 51 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 478 

Sick  of  thy  northern  glooms,  come,  shepherd,  seek      .        .        .       ."      .       .  133 

Sir,  after  you  have  wip'd  the  eyes           38 

So  fallen,  so  lost  I  the  light  withdrawn 332 

So,  Murphey,  you  are  come  to  try  your  Fortune 60 

Some  time  now  past  in  the  Autumnal  Tide 10 

Sometimes  for  days 523 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 241 

Soon  as  the  sun  forsook  the  eastern  main 66 

Sound!  sound!  sound 524 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you 498 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 199 

Spirit  that  form'd  this  scene 473 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 491 

Stars  of  the  summer  night 237 

Still  was  the  night,  Serene  &  Bright 19 

Stranger,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs 182 

Swift-rising  fame  on  early  wing  mounts  up 84 


668  AMERICAN  POEMS 


Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers 231 

The  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its  Southern  way     .        .        .328 

The  breezes  went  steadily  thro'  the  tall  pines 71 

The  Comet!     He  is  on  his  way 379 

The  day  is  cold  and  dark  and  dreary 238 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 240 

The  day  is  ours!  huzza,  the  day  is  ours 85 

The  days  grow  short;  but  tho'  the  falling  sun 130 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore 499 

The  fair  boy  Leonatus 475 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 192 

The  hound  was  cuffed,  the  hound  was  kicked 526 

The  innocent,  sweet  Day  is  dead • 525 

The  Lord  reigns,  cloth'd  with  majesty 2 

The  Lord  to  mee  a  shepheard  is j 

The  old  face  of  the  mother  of  many  children 446 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill       .       . 348 

The  quiet  August  noon  has  come     .        .       ...       .       .       .        .       .     197 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room     .       ....       .       .        .        .     486 

The  rose  did  caper  on  her  cheek 534 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway    .        .       .........       .       .     176 

The  shrill  cock's  clarion  the  blue  welkin  fills         .        .        .       .  •     .       .       .     170 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober      .       .       .       .'       ....       .       .223 

The  Sphinx  is  drowsy '.       .       .       .       .       .     320 

The  squadron  is  forming,  the  war-bugles  play .     512 

The  sun,  his  day-toil  clos'd,  to  rest  retires 171 

The  sun,  that  brief  December  day          .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .     354 

The  sweltering  farmer  spreads  the  new-mown  grass     .       .       .       .       .       .     170 

The  thoughts  are  like  a  swarm  of  Bees     .        .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       37 

The  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes 184 

The  way  I  read  a  letter  's  this         ... 534 

Thee  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah — come  in!     T  is  kind  of  thee        .        .     440 

There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree 416 

These  are  the  gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 202 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude .-'  312 

This  is  the  forest  primeval.     The  murmuring  pines  and  the  hemlocks     .       .     243 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign .     381 

This  kind  o'  sogerin'  aint  a  mite  like  our  October  trainin'  .....     398 

Those  well  scene  Natives  in  grave  Natures  bests i 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew 200 

Thou  born  to  sip  the  lake  or  spring  f 153 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love 216 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm 473 

Thou  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 189 

Thrash  away!  you'll  hev  to  rattle 394 


INDICES  669 


Thrice  happy  race!  how  blest  were  freedom's  heirs Iot> 

T  is  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell 161 

To  arms,  brave  countrymen!  for  see,  the  foe 78 

To  fight  aloud  is  very  brave 533 

To  heal  his  heart  of  long-time  pain .       .     530 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds i;g 

To  mix  the  food  by  vicious  rules  of  art .       .128 

To  sing  of  Wars,  of  Captains,  and  of  Kings 4 

T  was  sultry  noon;  impatient  of  the  heat 54 

Two  hulks  on  Hudson's  stormy  bosom  lie '.  .       .143 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree •     .  •       .       .       .     23^* 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn 350 

Up  from  the  south,  at  break  of  day       * .       .       .       .512 

Vigil  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night     ........     45g 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn ;    j  .  485 

Weak-winged  is  song ...       .  427 

Well,  Reader,  Wipe  thine  Eyes!  &  see  the  Man           33 

What  great  yoked  brutes  with  briskets  low   .        .       .       .       .       .     '  .       .525 

What  though  last  year  be  past  and  gone '  .       .  76 

What  visionary  tints  the  year  puts  on .401 

When  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell 181 

W'hen  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer 454 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd      .       .       .       ...       .       .       .  462 

When  Yankies,  skill'd  in  martial  rule      ..........  QS 

Whispers  of  heavenly  death  murmur'd  I  hear 469 

White  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep 334 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew jg3 

With  husky-haughty  lips,  O  sea 474 

Ye  Alps  audacious  thro'  the  Heav'ns  that  rise 124 

Yet,  yet,  ye  downcast  hours,  I  know  ye  also         .        .       ....       .472 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night        .        .        .        .        ,       .       .        .     336 

You  see,  brave  soldiers,  how  an  evil  cause 83 


PRINTED   IN  THE   U.S.A. 


Works  edited  by  WALTER  C. 
BRONSON  and  published  by  the 
University  of  Chicago  Press 

ENGLISH  POEMS 

OLD    ENGLISH    AND    MIDDLE 
ENGLISH  PERIODS 

THE    ELIZABETHAN    AGE    AND 
THE  PURITAN  PERIOD 

THE    RESTORATION   AND   THE 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

THE    NINETEENTH     CENTURY 

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AMERICAN  POEMS 


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